


Faceless

by Phinoa



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friendship/Love, HP: EWE, In Character, Journalism, Mental Health Issues, Minor Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Mistaken Identity, Mystery, Not Harry Potter and the Cursed Child Compliant, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Hermione Granger, Past Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Polyjuice Potion, Post-War, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Romance, Terrorism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-25
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2018-11-19 00:39:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 115,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11302149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phinoa/pseuds/Phinoa
Summary: New year. New love. New threat. A powerful enemy is on the rise, and Hermione Granger finds herself intertwined in a relationship with Draco Malfoy – only she doesn't know it's him. // RUNNER-UP: Enchanted Awards Summer 2017 for Best Relationship Development





	1. Prologue: The Girl in the Photograph

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome Ao3-readers! This story has so far only been uploaded to FFnet, but I thought I'd change that, so here we go! Harry Potter does by all means belong to JKR – haven't got a Sickle to my name.
> 
> All beta-love goes out to MalfoysMuggleMrs
> 
> Hope you'll enjoy Faceless
> 
> Cheers, Phinoa
> 
> \- - -
> 
> The tattered cloak image on the cover courtesy of CGElves.com – Thank you!
> 
> Parapet taken from “Statue of Neptune on an island at Witley Park” by Msemmett (Licence: CC BY-SA 3.0)

— CHAPTER ONE: PROLOGUE —

_**The Girl in the Photograph** _

_18 July 1998_

It was a Saturday just like any other for Monica Wilkins when she began stretching for her usual morning run.

The air was crisp, and a refreshing breeze tousled her curly brown hair which she had attempted to tame with a terry cloth headband. Winter in Australia was a welcome change for the Londoner; after having moved to Brisbane only a year prior and not fully accustomed to the tropics quite yet.

Her husband, Wendell, had suggested they leave the country for Down Under, seeing as it had always been a dream of theirs.

And why wouldn't they go?

Monica reminisced while jogging down the streets of Morningside. They were both dentists; a profession needed anywhere and everywhere across the globe. Besides, they didn't have any family back in Britain, so little was keeping them tied down. They served as their own very small (but nonetheless happy) family.

At that thought, something twinged in Monica's stomach, but she ignored it as always. She had long since given up on over-analysing the occasional twitch, once going so far as to even undergo an MRI scan to make sure she was in perfect health. Normally, being the thirsty-for-knowledge woman she was, she wouldn't have been satisfied with any unsolved questions over her medical conditions. In this case, however, she didn't mind. Something buried deep inside her head told her everything was going to be alright.

When Monica turned the corner onto her street half an hour later, she noticed a white envelope poking out from their otherwise empty letterbox slot.

Curious. The postman never did his rounds that early.

Shaking off her suspicions, she pulled out the letter and stared at it, still panting and fumbling for her keys. Their names were written in a neat, small hand, but despite having a stamp, there was no proper postmark.

Monica entered her home, taking off her runners and headband while scrutinising the envelope.

'Sweetie, I'm home,' she announced absentmindedly, now gazing at three different names listed on the backside of the letter.

Wendell poked his head through the kitchen door. 'Everything alright, honey?'

'Of course, why wouldn't it be?'

'You're scowling,' her husband observed, following her expression and finally noticing the envelope. 'Don't you want to open it?'

'What? Oh, I …' Monica sputtered. 'Yes. Of course.'

'I made breakfast, by the way,' said Wendell. 'All sugar-free, of course. Your favourite.'

Monica didn't show the slightest inclination to move, let alone answer, so he continued, 'You seem distraught, honey … why don't you hop into the shower while I'– he snagged the letter –'set this aside for you.'

'Alright,' Monica muttered softly, shaking her head as if she wanted to shoo away a fly. It felt like she had just awoken from a trance. 'Thank you. I'll see you in a minute.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Monica sighed blissfully; lips parted ever so slightly while nursing her tea. This was perfect. No meal made her happier than a proper breakfast, or brekkie, as the locals called it. Nothing was amiss as she sat there wistfully pondering.

Right on cue, her gaze fell upon the letter once more. She put her mug back and opened the envelope with trembling hands, feeling a rush of eager anticipation which she couldn't quite place.

'What does it say?' Wendell asked after a moment, spooning out his cantaloupe and watching his wife.

'It's an invitation,' Monica explained, scanning the letter. 'Or, well, enquiry, rather. It's from a few students within the School of Dentistry asking us to give a guest lecture on ceramic veneers. They claim to have heard of our expertise in that field …'

She handed over the letter to her husband, who took it and read aloud: 'hmm … "and we would be delighted if we could meet up to discuss the formalities of your guest lectures".'

Monica followed Wendell's gaze. His head tilted slightly; with lips pursed, and eyes squinting, he seemed just as befuddled as she.

'It's signed by one Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley, and … Hermione Granger,' he mumbled.

Wendell made a baffled humming sound and furrowed his brow. 'Hermione Granger,' he echoed, locking eyes with Monica, who was now biting her lower lip. 'Sounds all too familiar, does she not?' He rubbed the back of his neck. 'Isn't her father one of our patients?'

'I don't know,' answered Monica truthfully. She felt that twitch again and clasped her waist. 'Possibly.'

'Anyway,' said Wendell after a little pause for reflection, 'I think we should do it, don't you?'

Monica nodded in agreement, and her lips curled up into a tender smile. It was strange how she moved from confusion to contentment in the blink of an eye.

'I want to give them a ring,' she decided enthusiastically, snatching the letter from her husband's hands and scanning the page. After finding the number, she clumsily shoved back her chair and walked to their telephone.

Monica couldn't put her finger on it, but she sensed a certain familiarity with these students, despite not knowing anything about them. She found that she did not care – her gut instinct told her this was the right thing to do. She had never been more confident about anything in her life.

'Youth Hostel Australia Brisbane City, my name is Christie, how can I help you?' said a friendly, female voice on the other end of the line. She should have been put off by the suspicious circumstances of local students leaving a hostel's telephone number as their contact information, but again, she didn't mind.

'Hello Christie, this is Monica Wilkins. Do I understand correctly that one …' she hesitated for a moment, relishing the sound of the name as she spoke it. 'Hermione Granger is currently staying at your establishment?'

'That is correct, Ms Wilkins. If you would hold on for a second …'

Monica heard Christie deliver some incoherent words before a ruffled noise came through on the handset.

'Hello?'

The speaker's voice was warm, Monica immediately feeling a sense of ease wash over at the delicate greeting. Her shoulders (which she now noticed as tightly clenched) slouched back into a comfortable position.

'Ms Granger?' she replied. 'It's Monica Wilkins.'

'Ms Wilkins!' the girl babbled. 'Lovely to hear from you.'

Monica couldn't help but feel a tug at the end of her lips. Wendell, who had just come to join her in the hallway, flashed a warm, lopsided smile.

'And you,' she said, locking glances with Wendell. 'Thank you so much for your letter! My husband and I are beyond flattered by your proposition, and we'd love to meet up with you if the offer still stands.'

'Yes, of course. Brilliant!' the student eagerly responded. 'How about tea?'

Monica took a mental note that this Hermione Granger did not sound Australian in the slightest – yet another peculiarity added to the list she was completely indifferent to.

'This afternoon?' she suggested, toying with the cord. Once again, Monica sensed that she was dealing with a matter of exceptional urgency. Before the girl could give an answer, she added: 'There is this lovely café called the Three Monkeys, down in West End. How does that sound?'

'Perfect! Do you have the address?'

'Hang on.'

Monica turned to the side table and began flipping through the phone book, all the while cradling the handset between her head and shoulder.

'There you go. It's on 58 Mollison Street. Did you jot that down?'

'58 … Mollison … Street,' Hermione echoed absently, apparently making a note. Monica could hear her swallow. 'Th-three … o'clock, then?'

Her voice was clearly beginning to shake now, Monica feeling an inexplicable need to comfort her.

'Three o'clock would be fine, love.' A gasp on the other end made Monica pause briefly. 'And there really is nothing to be nervous about.'

The girl chuckled in disbelief but uttered a timid "okay" after a little while.

'Thank you again for your letter,' Monica said, now too quavering ever so slightly. 'See you soon!'

'See you …'

Before Monica hung up, she could have sworn she heard the girl sob. No sooner had she put down the phone than she burst into tears and buried her head in the crook of her husband's neck.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

The Three Monkeys was a dimly-lit, quaint place with cobbled-together furnishings and different curtains hanging on each window. Monica and Wendell had been there a few times prior, usually whenever they craved a bite of something sweet. They served the most delicious homemade cakes and pastries within the café, and despite her usual diet, Monica had developed a bit of a liking for Lamingtons.

It didn't take the dentist long to spot the three students, sitting at an isolated table, a tad farther away from all the other café customers. Despite never having seen the trio of teenagers before, she knew right away it was them.

One of the two boys immediately drew her attention, what with his ruffled, flaming red hair and matching bright blue eyes. Even seated, Monica could tell he was quite tall and lanky, with a rather uneasy look about him. His long, freckled nose crinkled, and his glances kept shooting towards the girl beside him, clasping her hand tightly underneath the table – completely unaware of Monica's scrutiny.

The girl.

Her hair was even bushier than Monica's, the combination of flyaways teetering on the brink of unruly. The chocolate coloured mass reflected a honey hue wherever light bounced off, and the student's face looked as if someone had sprinkled a pinch of cinnamon over a smooth layer of buttercream.

The girl seemed flustered, talking in a whispered hush to the second boy on her left. He too was tall, although perhaps a bit shorter than the redhead. He had inky black hair, which, (Monica was sure) would stand up on all sides had it not been shoulder-length. He wore round glasses, and although he seemed to be trying to comfort the girl, a stern expression wrinkled over his features.

All of them were much younger than she had expected. A bit too young for being dentistry students, let alone active participants in the organisation of curriculum-related affairs. Well, at least they looked young judging by their complexions, clothes, and body language. At second glance, however, they held a sombre air around them, telling of things they had seen and done far too early on in their youth.

Suddenly, the bespectacled boy looked up and met her gaze with bright green eyes. He said something she couldn't make out and cocked his head in Monica's direction. The girl too raised her glance.

Monica felt that prickling sensation of oncoming tears, with once again, no explanation of their origin. It frustrated her that her heart and mind seemed to work against each other and that her emotions had been on a – more or less – fun ride all day; it was aggravating. She felt Wendell lace fingers with hers, and it calmed her enough to be able to take a deep breath and move towards the table.

'Hello,' she greeted, trying her best to sound confident.

'Hello,' the girl echoed timidly. All the colour seemed to have drained from her face. Wendell and the two boys quickly followed their example to avoid the awkward silence and exchanged greetings and pleasantries, until everybody was seated.

'So …' Wendell cleared his throat, apparently more composed than Monica, and doing his best to make up for her wobbliness. 'Thank you again for the invitation, Mr … Weasley?' he glanced uncertainly at the dark haired boy, but as the alleged dentist-to-be wagged his head, he settled eyes on the ginger, who nodded in confirmation. Wendell continued with more confidence: 'Mr Potter …' Wendell's gaze wandered back to the boy who, Monica noticed, had a very prominent, lightning-shaped scar on his forehead. '… and Ms Granger.'

'Please, call me Hermione,' she insisted, averting her gaze and looking at the redhead next to her, eyes pleading for help.

'Um, yes. Just Ron will do, too,' he added.

'And it's Harry.'

'Alright then, Harry,' said Wendell, 'Why do you reckon we be the best for the job?'

'Er …' Harry muttered something under his breath.

'Because,' Hermione took over, 'Your expertise is widely renowned, and –'

'If I may interrupt,' Monica said, having somewhat regained her usual composure, suddenly recalling all the curiosities that led to this situation. 'But why are you really here? You're obviously Brits, and none of you appear old enough to study – abroad mind you – not to mention, intervene in curricular matters. Your letter didn't come per post. Why travel this far, all alone, without your parents, and go through all that trouble just to meet a couple of dentists? Please do tell us.' She tried to sound gentle while speaking, as to not scare the kids, but didn't manage to banish the shrill from her voice entirely.

Funnily enough, Ron chuckled and looked endearingly at Hermione. 'You know what they say about apples and trees, Hermione.'

'This is going to sound barmy,' declared Hermione, ignoring Ron's unusual reaction at Monica's deduction.

'Try us.'

The three all-too-familiar strangers gulped in unison, exchanging glances. Hermione let out a sharp breath.

'What if I tell you that you are not who you think you are?' she asked but didn't wait for an answer. 'What if I tell you that we'– she gestured towards herself and the boys –'are a tad more out of the ordinary than you assume?' Again, no reaction. Hermione started working her lower lip, reminding Monica of her own habit.

'Look,' Harry interjected. 'Our world is much bigger than you could possibly imagine. What you believe to be fiction has more truth to it than you know.' He sighed apprehensively before continuing. 'We're wizards. Well …' He glimpsed at the girl to his right and snorted amusedly. 'Hermione's a witch, of course.'

Wendell furrowed his brow in disbelief. 'Beg your pardon?'

'You didn't mishear,' replied Harry. 'There is magic in our world, and some of us are able to use it. Here, let me show you.'

Monica's eyes widened as the bespectacled boy drew a wooden stick from the inside of his denim jacket, aimed it at the empty teacup in front of him and muttered something which she didn't understand. A jet of clear water shot from the tip of the stick until the cup was topped up. Nobody said a word. Monica did not dare speak, and neither did her husband. It was a trick, surely. Such a thing was impossible! The boy must have read her mind ( _Could he do that?_ ), because as if to prove the realness of his actions, he made a circular motion with his, well, wand, and the water vanished. Monica felt Wendell move beside her; he reached for the cup and turned it around. There was nothing remotely suspicious about it.

'How?' Monica queried, too dumbstruck to form a proper sentence, let alone allow herself to wonder why these kids would let them, out of all people, in on that big of a secret.

'It's just how it is,' Ron shrugged. 'Some have magic; most don't.'

'All of you?' Wendell asked.

Hermione nodded. 'There is more,' she said sheepishly and rummaged in a purple, beaded handbag. Monica noticed that there was no way half of her forearm could fit into the small purse, but then again, what did she know? The girl pulled out a photograph and shoved it towards the couple. It showed the two of them, smiling happily, standing in front of the holiday home in the south of France they had once rented over summer. To Monica's astonishment, they were waving at the camera – literally.

The picture was moving. Monica squinched her eyes shut and reopened them to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. Granted, what with all the conjuring and vanishing going on, she shouldn't have been surprised. Then, all of the sudden, the scene changed; a petite teenaged girl appeared in the frame, facing away from the camera. Her bushy brown hair was bobbing up and down as she ran towards the two adults, who looked at her endearingly and took her into their midst, wrapping their arms around her shoulders.

Monica lifted her gaze only to see the girl in front of her tearing up. It was then that she felt the silent, salty drops running down her own cheeks. Wendell tensed up next to her, and she knew he was thinking the same thoughts.

'It's the only picture that wasn't affected by the spell,' the pretty girl sobbed, evidently trying to find comfort in the explanation. 'I suppose it's because I used a special developing solution to make it move … you know, that's what magical photos are like, they all move … I've had it on me every day, since …' The redhead squeezed her hand reassuringly, and it seemed to give her the last bit of confidence she needed.

'Mum, Dad … it's me.' And Hermione pointed her wand at them, giving it a small flick.

It all came back to her then. The day she found out she was pregnant. The hospital. Her teething. Her dummies, inexplicably re-appearing in her mouth when they tried to break her of the habit. Her first word ("No"). Her tantrums. Her clear, ever so sweet giggle. How she excelled at school. How her face lit up when she received that letter. That wonderful, mind-boggling letter. The strange man in robes explaining everything. Their first trip to that fantastic alley. Hermione's eyes growing wide in amazement when they walked into that bookshop. Hermione on their couch, wrapped up in her favourite quilt while devouring every single word in those books. Hermione kissing them goodbye before boarding the train. Owls sending them letters and birthday presents. That one summer, grim, frantic. Hermione on the brink of tears every time they would hug.

Helen's lower lip trembled. There was no need for words anymore. She rose from her chair, walked around the table and pulled her girl into a desperate, gentle, long overdue embrace. She felt Robert walk up behind her and wrap his arms around them both, planting kisses on their heads, uttering what they were all thinking.

'We've missed you so much.'

 


	2. Old Friends and New Faces

— CHAPTER TWO —

_**Old Friends and New Faces** _

_1 January 2002_

Hermione could see her breath twirling in the air as she trudged through the snow towards the heavy iron gates, two winged boars bidding her welcome upon entry. Hogwarts looked as if it had been glazed with a coating of powdered sugar, the countless towers and turrets forming bright, glittering beacons against the late afternoon sky.

She couldn't help but smile. Seeing Hogwarts always made her happy. The thick fortress of knowledge and secrets was lounging serenely amidst the snowy background; Hermione half expected it to move ever so slightly as if taking deep, contented breaths.

Sometimes she could swear the castle was alive; it might as well be. But today, Hogwarts was not her destination. Instead of walking up the hills, she veered downward and left, making her way towards the small gamekeeper hut between the rolling valleys. Smoke puffed out from the chimney, and Hermione eagerly anticipated stepping inside the snug warmth that was Hagrid's home. She could hear Fang barking in anticipation when she knocked on the wooden door, it opening a tiny crack before Hagrid's bearded face soon appeared within the gap.

'Hermione!' Hagrid beamed down at her. 'Happy New Year! Come on in, come on in.'

She entered, feeling warm air from the hut's interior prickle against her cold cheeks.

'Happy New Year, Hagrid,' she greeted cheerfully before embracing her friend. He patted her head, which she knew was supposed to be a gentle gesture, when in reality it made her feel concertinaed. 'How are you?' she asked, taking off her scarf and mittens.

'Good, good,' Hagrid replied. 'Can't complain. New term's 'bout to start, lil Millie's doin' great. Grawp's bin helpin' ter keep her from wanderin' off. Thought I'd show her ter the seventh years, yeh know. All thanks to you, Hermione.'

"Little" is not how Hermione would describe the Wampus Cat that had been committed to the care of Hagrid only a couple of weeks prior. Millie was now legally roaming the area where the Forbidden Forest met the foothills Sirius had once sought refuge in.

Wampus Cats were native to the Appalachian mountains, yet this one had found its way to Britain in the hands of a smuggler. Once detected, it had been confiscated by the Ministry, and Hermione – respected employee of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures – had suggested it best to be placed under the gamekeeper's watchful care.

It had been the first time her newly passed legislation had come into play: a law which allowed the breeding and keeping of magical creatures (classified as dangerous or even impossible-to-tame), as long as the applicant could ensure the safety of all human beings, magical beings and beasts within an x-mile radius. "X" was defined based on the creature in question, the variable ranging quite frequently depending on its particular specification.

The law also comprised a clause which explicitly permits critically endangered species access into the Forbidden Forest, and thus, into Hagrid's care. Tedious paperwork was required to grant permission for either case, but it opened up entirely new possibilities for the half-giant. Not that Hagrid could have been discouraged from keeping dangerous beasts with or without the law, but now he was doing it legally.

Hermione could still picture his exceedingly delighted face once she had handed him a copy of the legislation on his birthday last December.

'Don't mention it,' Hermione replied, giving a dismissive wave of her hand while almost being swallowed by the enormous armchair she'd made herself comfortable in. 'Besides, I couldn't have done it without Mr Scamander's help.' The world-famous Magizoologist had indeed been her strongest advocate for the case.

'I still can't believe yeh met him,' Hagrid chortled, apparently both proud and a tad envious of his friend's professional relationship with one of his greatest heroes.

'Nor can I,' Hermione admitted. 'It was so exciting. Did I tell you that Luna was there, too?'

'Was she now?' Hagrid poured her a giant mug of tea and treated himself to a rock cake.

'Yeah! She was reporting for _The Quibbler_ , but that's not the interesting bit.' She leaned over to share a piece of gossip, Hagrid mirroring her motion. 'We went there right before Hallowe'en, which must have been the reason why the Scamanders' grandson was staying over at their house. Anyway, Luna … she fancies him.' Hermione allowed herself a telling grin. 'And he seemed quite smitten with her, too.'

'Tha's great news, tha' is!' boomed Hagrid, his beetle-black eyes twinkling. 'Imagine tha' … our Luna an' a Scamander …'

'They're not married yet, Hagrid,' chuckled Hermione. 'They did spend New Year's together, though.'

'Speakin' o' which,' began Hagrid, Hermione already having a rather good idea of what he was about to say. She knitted her brow. 'Anyone yeh wanna tell me about?'

Hermione took a purposefully long sip of her tea before answering. 'No,' she stated. 'No one.'

'It's not still because o' –'

'No, Hagrid, Ron's got nothing to do with it.' She sighed. Apparently, she had to go into detail. Hagrid was her friend and hence deserved a proper explanation. 'Ron and I broke up two years ago. It's been a long time, and I'm over it. He's moved on, and so have I. Well, in theory at least. We just didn't work out … you know, we grew apart. Insurmountable differences and all that. We both agreed that it'd be best to go back to being friends. Not that it's easy, but it's getting better now. I spent Christmas at the Burrow, and it felt like old times again.' A smile tugged at the end of her lips. 'Well, not entirely like old times, what with the children crawling about, but you know all that.'

Teddy and Victoire were marvellous toddlers, and Hermione cared deeply about the both of them. Sometimes children can make people forget just how miserable they all actually were.

'Anyway,' Hermione continued when Hagrid remained silent, 'I just haven't the mind to deal with a relationship right now. There's a lot going on at work, and besides, the last bloke I went out with was a complete tosser. He just wanted to meet Harry! That's not exactly the most encouraging thing for a woman, you know. But I don't care. I'm completely fine –'

'Codswallop,' Hagrid interrupted. 'I'm not sayin' yeh need someone ter be happy, but yeh do care. Yeh can't fool me, Hermione.'

Hagrid was right. She couldn't fool him. He had always been there for her – the one person during her time at Hogwarts she could always rely on. When she had been rowing with Ron during her third year, she had found comfort in Hagrid's hut, where he would make tea and tell her all sorts of stories.

When she had received all that hate mail during her fourth year, in addition to Ron's cold-shoulder, it was Hagrid who consoled her the most. When she had been heartbroken during her sixth year, Hagrid put up with her unsolicited baking advice and heated ramblings about S.P.E.W., simply because he knew it would make her happy, even if only for an hour or two.

It was ignorant to assume she could lie to him. Maybe it just came naturally by that point; from so often lying to herself.

She was not fine, and she hadn't been in a long time. The press may have promoted the turning millennium as a "new era of peace and unity", but the reality was far from it. The initial victory rush had eventually waned, witches and wizards alike finding themselves confronted by the heavy weight of an ordinary life. Everything seemed like an unreal charade at times. People continued mourning the dead and trying to overcome staggering mental issues – each in their own, personal way.

Some, like Hermione, were overcompensating at work; others turned to drinking – or whichever similar vice they found solace in. It wasn't so much about being happy versus unhappy, but rather about coping. The degree of that nationwide depression varied significantly from one witch or wizard to another, but in the end, it was once more the children who bore the brunt. Hagrid had told her stories about how many Hogwarts students were unable to keep up with their workload back then, and how because of it, Madam Pomfrey had to hand out Invigoration Draughts, Potions of Dreamless Sleep, Calming Draughts, and heaps of chocolate on a daily basis.

It had also been the time when Ron and Hermione had decided to split up. The year 2000 was a year Hermione would rather forget.

'You're right,' she finally yielded, raising her eyes to meet her friend's. 'I'm not okay. Not really. But what am I supposed to do? I've tried nearly everything … I enjoy working at the Ministry, but I still always try and make time for friends. And not just out of obligation, either. I love our visits or going out with Ginny. Even just watching the others play Quidditch in the orchard. I went so far as to see a Muggle therapist like my mother suggested, but it didn't help at all … I feel so lost, Hagrid. The nightmares still won't go away!'

'O, come 'ere, Hermione,' Hagrid said and pulled her up into a tight hug. It felt good, although she wondered if she'd be leaving with a couple of bruised ribs afterwards.

'I'd say s'long as yer tryin', it'll get better one day,' he consoled, releasing her from the embrace. 'This can't last forever, yeh know.'

Hermione hummed absently.

'But I still think yeh should be tryin' ter find a decent bloke. It might take yer mind off things fer a while, and yeh know, tha' might be jus' what yeh need.'

'You're one to talk!' objected Hermione suddenly, feeling a grin spread across her lips. Hagrid averted his gaze, a sheepish blush creeping onto his cheeks.

'She … er … she's independent, yeh know,' he muttered meekly. 'Didn' wan' ter leave France an' her post. And I understand tha'. But you, Hermione, yeh've got everythin' ahead o' you. Yeh shouldn' be alone.'

'You know what,' Hermione said, straightening herself up, 'I believe you're right. I deserve to feel better.' Not that she had the faintest inkling of how to go about that, but in the moment, it didn't matter. Hagrid beamed at her, his delight almost infectious.

'On a different note,' she continued, not entirely unhappy about a change of subject, 'how're your OWL preparations going?'

One of the many great things Harry had done in the aftermath of the War was to battle all the red tape necessary to readmit Hagrid into Hogwarts and (officially) give him back his wand. It hadn't been viewed as a priority, neither at the Ministry nor at Hogwarts – what with all the immediate repercussions of the War in place – so it had taken a while. But eventually, Hagrid had begun taking third year classes, all the while retaining his teaching and gamekeeping duties. It was impressive how he managed everything. Hermione admired his lasting endurance; in only a few short months, his OWLs would be due.

'S'pose I could use yer help with a few subjects,' he admitted. 'But all in all, it's goin' well. It's not like I need to be studyin' fer Care o' Magical Creatures.' He smirked at her.

'No, you certainly don't,' Hermione agreed. She shot a look out of the window and sighed. The sky had turned a dark indigo, yet another day having passed by.

'I'm afraid it's getting rather late,' she said, reaching for her winter cloak. 'I had better leave. I'll have to attend our annual New Year's Agenda Meeting first thing in the morning. And it's going to be a long day, what with the gala and all.'

'It's bin a pleasure havin' yeh over, Hermione,' Hagrid said before flashing her a warm smile. 'If yeh need anythin', jus' let me know.'

'I will.' She nodded, returning the smile. 'This was just what I needed today, by the way. Thank you for telling me everything that I didn't want to hear. It's something I frequently do with others, but I need it myself sometimes, too.'

'That's wha' friends're for, right?'

'Right,' Hermione echoed, all the while wrapping her self-knitted scarf around her neck. 'Don't forget to write to me about the lessons with Millie. I want to know everything!'

Hagrid promised he would Owl her as he opened the door. After patting Fang goodbye, she retraced her steps on the road leading towards Hogsmeade. Once arriving at the small village, still blanketed in snow and lit up from the holiday festivities, Hermione finally Apparated back home into her London flat.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco Malfoy awoke from yet another nightmare. He opened his eyes, exhaling sharply, and staring at the ceiling with cold sweat beaded on his brow.

He had been in the Manor, again. The place never ceased to haunt him, no matter how hard he tried to push it out of his mind. He hated every minute of being in that house he had once called home, which was one of the reasons he'd left for fresh fields the instant he had returned from his final year at Hogwarts.

The hands of the alarm clock on his bedside table pointed to 5.36 in the morning. Draco sighed in resignation. He might as well get up and start the day early. He flung the duvet aside, got himself out of bed, and grabbed his wand. As much as he enjoyed a nice cup of tea, the early morning hour was calling for a coffee.

He dragged himself to the kitchen and pointed his wand at the little moka pot as to fill the bottom part with water. Another flick of his wand and espresso powder hovered from a nearby tin into the small sieve, which eventually settled itself in the upper part of the pot. Now he only had to cast a Heating Charm and wait one minute for the espresso to be ready. Draco yawned and rubbed his neck. Yes, he definitely needed the caffeine. He Magicked a carton of Mrs Knott's Self-refrigerating milk out of one of the cupboards and poured it into a large mug, before adding a lump of sugar followed by the espresso. Having grown up surrounded by house-elves fulfilling his every wish, non-verbal household magic had taken him a while to master, yet he found preparing his own food and drink oddly satisfying.

Draco settled himself, cross-legged, in his favourite armchair by the sitting room window, sipping the hot liquid while the fireplace crackled. The sun had not come up yet. He rather liked these early winter hours. The mysterious quiet, the street lanterns shedding their light onto the cobblestone pavement, and stray cats running through the bright circular patches every now and then.

Witches and wizards were wrapped up in winter cloaks, scurrying to work with their faces covered by the thick, white puffs of their own breath. In his younger years, Draco had found it difficult to let something pass without a comment – or rather, a slur – but he had become more of a silent observer these days. He would watch carefully, make up his mind if need be, and eventually write his thoughts down. Writing did not have the same immediate repercussions as did heedless verbal statements; it was a lot more prudent. And prudent a Slytherin always was – rashness was for Gryffindors.

Draco snorted in spite of himself, at a sudden memory of the old house rivalries. He felt somewhat comfortable sorting certain behavioural patterns by Hogwarts houses – as a child it had allowed him to judge others without so much as a thought. They were a Ravenclaw? – They must be conceited know-it-alls. They were a Hufflepuff? – They must be naive and disposable. They were a Gryffindor? – _Don't even get me started on Gryffindors_.

It had been fairly easy to think that way. Bigotry had been ingrained in him too deeply to be able to ever resist it. He had been a bully (that part was clear to him now) and he resented it.

Draco shook off the unwelcome feelings and made his way towards the bathroom, where he would soon allow scalding water to cleanse away the shame. He shed his pyjama bottoms, stepping underneath the shower and exhaling contently as the water droplets trickled across his body.

He roughly went through the day's upcoming agenda in his mind. He would arrive at the editorial office at a quarter to seven, which (being the part-time writer he was) left him with more than enough time to come back home and change, as well as brace himself for the annual New Year's Gala at the Ministry. He knew he would have to attend the event in order to keep up the facade.

In the public eye, he was Draco Malfoy; prosperous, eligible bachelor to some, despicable ex-Death Eater to others. However, Lucius Malfoy's pitiful son – deeply indebted to Harry Potter – was the title he wore most. Either party knew him as the manager of the Malfoy family's wealth. His father had assigned all of the duties to him, oblivious to Draco's actual occupation. It was mostly showing his face at official events, making an investment every now and then and collecting their shares to deposit into Gringotts at the end of each month. Despite the money made, Draco found the task to be a necessary, unrewarding evil; a means to an end, but mostly a good method to deceive his father.

If his father had even the faintest inkling of him being not only a journalist but also a pro-equality writer, Draco would get disowned in a heartbeat. Not that he cared about the money; with his job outside their family business he was able to make a living either way. However, he still wished to remain in good standing with his father. Ironically, it was not because of Lucius at all. Yes, the man was his sire, but Draco had been bearing a grudge against him since his dreadful sixth year at Hogwarts. He found it rather difficult to forgive being dragged along into a society he had never wanted to be a part of – not wholeheartedly, mind you, once he had realised the true scale of Voldemort's agenda.

No, when it came to Draco's cover-up occupation, he was really doing it for his mother. He loved her deeply; and being a man who preferred to let his actions speak for themselves, he carried on to play the role of a dutiful son, simply because he knew it would keep Narcissa happy. Narcissa loved his father very much, the two sharing one of these bonds that would not answer to reason. Draco did not wish to interfere in her happiness by breaking their family apart – she had been devastated enough when he'd announced his departure from the Manor right after leaving school.

Draco had discovered his interest in writing during his final year of school as one of the Hogwarts returnees. His coming back to Hogwarts for his NEWTs had been the sole condition of his acquittal, and it was a sanction that Draco had gladly accepted. He knew Potter was to thank for that, seeing as The Boy Who Lived had been the greatest advocate for his family – oh the irony!

It had all been about telling the right lie in the right moment. For him, it was lying to his late aunt about Potter's true identity; for his mother, it was lying to the Dark Lord about Potter's death. Lucius had then simply used his wife's and son's pardon to his advantage, somehow managing to weasel his way out of ending up in Azkaban – again – yet this time not eluding punishment entirely; his right to carry and use a wand having been revoked ever since.

Unfortunately, the trials' results had had far severer consequences than anyone had anticipated. After several former Death Eaters and followers of Voldemort had been pardoned or only mildly penalised during the summer of 1998, many Muggle-borns and their sympathisers – calling themselves "Mud Marchers" – had rallied against the Wizengamot's decisions.

Peaceful at first, the rallies and marches had turned into riots when the Ministry kept refusing to meet the demands of punishing certain pure-blood families more stiffly – first and foremost Draco's own. Other families denounced had been the Greengrasses and Parkinsons, as well as Death Eater children such as Draco's classmates Theodore Nott and Gregory Goyle. The revolt had culminated in the attempted abduction of then sixth year Slytherin Astoria Greengrass, during the last Hogsmeade visit before Christmas. However, the culprits had not come far, shortly apprehended by Ministry officials before succeeding in their mission.

Draco had been shocked by the scope of things, soon making the decision to stay out of the spotlight as much as possible. He did not care for being assaulted or gossiped about.

Then, on Christmas Eve, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Minister for Magic, and Hermione Granger (out of all people) had publicly addressed the extremists themselves. Granger had been one of the Hogwarts returnees as well, and being a War heroine, her words held more power than most. Even Draco couldn't help but be impressed.

As it happened, he had been there in person (fully disguised), after having found most media outlets reporting on the so-called "Mud Marches" both misleading and completely different depending on where you looked. He had made the decision to attend the conference and form his own opinion – something which he'd never been accustomed to doing while growing up. Granger had then distanced herself from the riots and pleaded urgently to the entire magical community that they not be swayed by prejudice and bigotry, regardless of their ancestry.

She had further emphasised that the War had not been fought for another to commence in its wake, calling on the Muggle-borns to learn forgiveness, as those truly responsible for their persecution and suffering had all been incarcerated. As of that day, the Mud Marches had come to an end. Minor sentences had been imposed upon several insurgent fighters; the three extremists involved in Astoria's abduction had faced severer legal repercussions, much to Draco's satisfaction. It was wrong to attack the innocent, and he knew for a fact that neither of the Greengrass sisters had any involvement with the Death Eaters.

Now, what with Granger having been an instrument in the resolution of the Marches, Draco found himself once more indebted to yet another member of the Golden Trio. At least Weasley had not been added to the list. He had bullied the weasel and the others relentlessly, of course, but despite his feelings of guilt and remorse, he still couldn't bring himself to _like_ them. And why would he need to? He didn't have a single meaningful connection to any of them.

After the Mud Marches, Draco had backed off even further to devote himself solely to his studies. Long hours in the library had, however, also inspired him to write about the recent incidents, be it for his eyes only, and he had come to the realisation that he enjoyed it very much.

He had always been a rather creative bloke. It was just that he had often only put that particular talent to use for the purpose of bullying. Be it impersonating a Dementor for the fun of giving Potter a scare (which, ironically, had scared the hell out of himself in the end, what with Potter's unprecedented move to cast a sodding Patronus at them); making badges to – again – annoy Potter, or even writing an entire song to throw Weasley off his game. Despite having acknowledged the wrongness of those actions, he was somewhat proud of the mischief he had come up with – that much credit Draco allowed himself.

Having decided he felt properly cleaned, Draco parted the shower curtains and cast a quick Drying Charm on himself after stepping out of the tub. The trousers he had set aside were a tad too long for him, but that was his intention. As a writer, he was not Draco. His name would have given him away instantaneously, both to the public and to his parents. They would never understand; no one would. Well, except for Theo, who actually endorsed his double life. Sadly, Theodore Nott was not representative of the wizarding society, which is why he was the only one privy to the secret. On top of his desire to avoid potential critics, Draco also feared that no one would pay heed to his articles unless he wrote them under a false name.

By all means, he could have decided against his wish to become a writer altogether, but if Draco Malfoy set his mind to something, he would certainly do anything in his power to reach said goal. Fortunately, it was fairly easy to change one's identity as a wizard, and Draco was a skilled Occlumens as well as potioneer.

The combination of Polyjuice Potion and solid, undetectable lies, resulted in a completely new persona: Leon Boswell.

He opened a magically enlarged cabinet which contained his extensive stock of the complicated potion and withdrew one of the phials. It had taken Draco a while to figure out the perfect formula, which allowed him to keep the changed appearance for precisely six hours – enough to cover his working hours, yet not too long an effect as to hinder him from attending his duties as the Malfoy heir. However, he always carried around a spare vial for good measure, lest he needed to extend the effect. Before he swigged down the thick liquid, which had turned a teal colour once he had added the hair, Draco shot a wistful glance at his reflection in the mirror. Potter's Sectumsempra curse had left several scars running wildly across his chest; his Dark Mark faded, but still visible to the watchful eye. Especially the latter was the one thing about his appearance which he gladly covered up.

Draco downed the potion in one gulp and immediately felt the familiar sensation of his insides writhing and burning up, and his skin bubbling. The transformation was by no means pleasant, but he had got used to it over the years, not minding it so much anymore. The first time had been the worst.

Once it was over, Draco stared into the mirror and nodded curtly to his reflection in habitual recognition. As Leon, he was slightly taller and sturdier, and his complexion was not as pale. His facial features were still handsome but chiselled rather than pointed. His eyes were not grey, but instead, slate blue; his hair now a dirtier shade of blond, both thicker and with a trifle wave.

Draco had not wanted to copy the looks of someone too distinct from himself; he embodied Leon for several hours on almost every day of the week after all, and he needed to feel as comfortable as possible in his skin. Had his teenaged self known that he would one day be using Muggle genome in order to disguise himself, he would have been disgusted. The adult he now was only shrugged internally at that thought, simply not caring where the key ingredient came from at this point.

Ever the perfectionist, Draco had come up with an entire back story for his new persona. Despite, or maybe all the more because of his mother's incessant pleading that he stayed, Draco had not only left the Manor after he'd returned from Hogwarts, but Britain entirely. He hadn't cared to be part of the British wizarding society back then – what with the reverberations of the Mud Marches, his parents, and the bad press that never seemed to ebb away.

Thus it happened that he had left for France for several months. When he was a child, Narcissa and his late grandfather Cygnus had insisted he learn French; as a result, he spoke the language fluently – his Black family background and their roots in France having proved good for something at least. Over the course of his stay, he had established all the details: Leon was half British, half French, raised in Oxfordshire, but sent to Beauxbatons on his fictive mother's insistence that it was the most prestigious of all European schools. Said mother, as well as Leon's father, were both killed during the War; it was easier for Draco if he didn't have to deal with imaginary family on top of his other very real issues. When it came to the name, Draco had wanted to pick a constellation – as was a family tradition – yet he couldn't be too obvious about it, so he had eventually settled for the common name based on the Leo constellation. Draco was well aware of the irony – what with the lion being major Gryffindor symbolism – but he decided against dwelling on it.

Once he'd had everything mapped out, he had only needed an appropriate donor, whom he had eventually found in Muggle Caen. Draco had discovered that Muggle hair salons were a formidable source for the key ingredient, so he had snuck into a salon one day, Confunded a few Muggles, and snagged a large clump of hair, belonging to the tall, handsome man in his mid-twenties; the exact same one now staring back at Draco through the mirror.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco Flooed to the _Daily Prophet_ 's main office at precisely 6.45am. He was well aware of the opportunist reporting that sprung from many of the affiliated journalists' quills, yet he was convinced that if he wanted things to change, he would have to make active contributions.

And so he did.

'Good morning, Leon,' the secretary witch greeted him. 'Happy New Year! What brings you in so early?'

'Happy New Year, Bridget,' he replied with a friendly smile and a voice different from his own. It was uncanny how easily Draco slipped into the role of his alter ego. 'Nothing, really. Just couldn't sleep.'

'Sorry to hear that, love. It seems common these days, though. My son keeps complaining about nightmares, too.'

'I've heard,' Draco answered, lips pursed. 'Well, I'd better get to work.'

'Would you like a cup of tea, dear?' offered Bridget.

Draco accepted, thanking her and making his way towards the office. He shared the space with another young writer and past pupil of Hogwarts: Padma Patil. She was still at home at this hour. The former Ravenclaw was a decent writer; she contributed to a column on recent spell development and occasionally wrote fashion-related articles for the _Sunday Prophet_.

Draco was certain that she fancied him – or rather, Leon. He didn't reciprocate the feeling, so he always tried to be as professional towards her as possible. It wasn't because she was entirely unattractive – in fact, she was rather pretty – but Draco couldn't entertain the idea of getting close with an old schoolmate, let alone a colleague he shared his office with. Besides, it was Leon with whom she was smitten, not Draco.

No sooner had Draco taken a seat than Bridget knocked at his door, entering the office with a tray laden with tea, milk, and biscuits.

'There you go, love,' she said, setting the tray on his desk, and Draco thanked her dutifully. Before leaving, she added: 'Oh, before I forget, Barnabas wants to speak with you. He asked me to tell you that he expects you in his office at seven.'

Barnabas Cuffe was the editor-in-chief of the _Daily Prophet_. He was a friendly man in his forties, and Draco knew him to be in close contact with his former Potions professor, Horace Slughorn. After the War, Cuffe had been cleared of all charges against him – having been accused of partaking in anti-Muggle politics as well as writing, printing, and distributing anti-Muggle-born propaganda. However, it was quickly cleared up that he had been acting upon the influence of the Imperius Curse.

'Yes?' Cuffe answered once Draco had knocked at the door. He stepped inside the office and looked into his employer's kind eyes. 'Ah, Mr Boswell – please – sit.'

Draco seated himself on the chair in front of Cuffe's desk.

'What can I do for you, Sir?' he enquired.

'I had a splendid idea over the holidays,' Cuffe told him excitedly. 'I think you'll like it. Would you be up for writing something rather biographical?' He didn't wait for an answer, most likely assuming that Draco would comply regardless of the request. 'I was thinking about featuring a series of different interviews. Perhaps with a couple of follow-up articles, too … we haven't published anything about her in quite a while, and I believe the timing is right – considering the recent developments in legislation and all. And since you've proven to be a more than capable writer, I reckon you'd be the best fit for the job. You deserve a project of your own, don't you agree?'

Draco remained silent, nodding cautiously. An odd feeling was beginning to form in his stomach.

'Besides, she might respond to your charms,' he added with a wink.

Draco gulped.

'Who?' was all he managed.

Cuffe grinned broadly before answering.

'Hermione Granger.'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was heavy on the narrative, I know! Sorry about that, but I had to get quite a bit of background information out of the way. It'll get better, promise!


	3. Schoolmates

— CHAPTER THREE —

_**Schoolmates** _

_Hermione Granger._

The name reverberated in Draco's ears.

Surely, he must have misheard. Then again, he knew he hadn't. Luckily, his employer mistook his silence for ignorance.

'Oh, but of course – you don't know who she is, do you?' Cuffe surmised.

'Yes – I mean – no,' sputtered Draco. 'I've heard of her. The War affected all of Europe, and the events in Britain didn't go unnoticed back in France, either.' He rubbed his eyes. 'Sorry, it's still a bit early.'

'Don't you worry, dear boy,' Cuffe said in a fatherly tone, 'I'll tell you all you need to know. I don't assume you've heard of the Mud Marches?'

Of course he had, but he couldn't admit to having witnessed the events first hand, so he simply shrugged – claiming to have only read about them vaguely. Draco – or more commonly known to others, Leon – had returned to England the end of the past millennium. He spent the first half of his career working as a reporter for a local newspaper in York before landing his current position at the _Prophet_ , eight months prior. Hence, he couldn't have possibly been in Britain when the rallies took place – at least as far as Cuffe was concerned.

'One would've had to be there – really – to fully understand. I was there, you know. At the conference during Christmas Eve of '98. Miss Granger – she was absolutely brilliant. Her speech was truly inspiring; oh well, not like anyone ever expected less, of course. What she said about extremes … If I recall, it was something along the lines of, "extremism knows no sides. It knows neither right from wrong nor when to stop and surrender",' he cited importantly, and Draco felt reminded of that particular statement. 'You would've hardly believed she was merely a Hogwarts student at that point,' Cuffe carried on. 'Her way to the top is unprecedented! She was offered a position at the Department of Magical Law Enforcement almost immediately after that … and she really should have accepted, for what it's worth …'

Cuffe was on a serious praising trip; Draco inwardly rolled his eyes at the man's exaggerated homage.

'… and all that at such a young age! As I recall you're …?'

'I'm 24, Sir,' responded Draco curtly, knowing that his employer preferred to do most of the talking. Draco had made Leon three years older, a much more fitting age to accompany the Muggle's looks. Although he failed to see how this was of any importance; unless Cuffe wanted him to be flirtatious with her – a strategy which, Draco was sure, he would never make use of when it came to Hermione sodding Granger.

'As it happens, I have already taken it upon me to enquire about her cooperation, and she's accepted to work with us. Why don't you Owl her a suggestion for a meeting? Next Monday, perhaps? So you two can make an acquaintance.'

For a split second, Draco considered rejecting the task, but what reason could Leon possibly have for that?

_Sod it._

'I will, Sir,' Draco eventually answered. Realising the briefing had come to an end, he stood, leaving the room in a dazed stupor and heading back to his office.

Padma had finally arrived for the day. 'Hi, Leon, Happy New Year.' She smiled at him, tucking a strand of silky black hair behind her ear. Before he could say anything in return, she added, 'There's an owl for you,' pointing at the window with a perfectly manicured index finger.

An owl? For whom precisely? His brows knitted together and Draco scurried to the window sill to relieve the handsome barn owl of its post. As if knowing something Draco didn't, the bird stared up at him expectantly.

The envelope was simply addressed to "L. B." – Draco recognised the handwriting instantly, suppressing his signature smirk before a frown appeared in its place. Merlin, despite that big brain of his, Theo could seriously be careless sometimes, sending private letters to his workplace. At least he hadn't used his real name, Draco acknowledged while unfolding the parchment. He could almost picture Theo's air quotes and hear his mocking tone while reading the salutation:

_Leon_

_I'm swinging by your place later today. Just ignore this. Unless you do not want to see your best friend, then, by all means, turn me down. I'll still pop in either way._

_T._

_PS: Since ridiculous names seem to be in fashion, what do you think, would I make a good Sherman?_

Draco couldn't withstand a grin, snatching a quill from his desk and quickly scribbling back an answer:

_You're one to mock, THEODORE. Just Floo over at one. I'll lift the wards for you. Bring lunch._

'What's got you all smiling?' Padma asked in passing. Draco detected a slight change of pitch in her voice, suggesting that she hoped he wasn't receiving letters from a lover. Ironically enough, had she known who he really was, the jealousy would be promptly replaced with disgust, he was sure.

'Just a friend being silly,' he replied vaguely and tied his response to the owl's leg.

'I heard you're going to write about Hermione Granger,' the witch pried – again, supposedly casual. News indeed travelled fast. If Draco hadn't been irritated by her behaviour, he might have felt sorry for her unrequited infatuation. 'She was in my year at Hogwarts, you know,' Padma continued. 'Teacher's favourite, always on Harry Potter's heels …'

Draco found he could hardly disagree.

'… and she and Ron didn't work out after all.'

'Who?' Draco asked, feigning ignorance. In truth, he was rather surprised to hear that particular piece of information. Suffice it to say, the entire school had known before them.

'Oh, just the third member of their gang. My sister made me go out with him once …' she sighed, obviously thinking back to the Yule Ball during their fourth year. Draco remembered questioning how the weasel had managed to get one of the – undeniably good-looking – Patil sisters to go with him. Then he thought of Granger; she had rendered many a grudger and ill-wisher speechless that night. Himself included.

'My friend Mandy heard that she broke up with him. Supposedly because he wanted to move in together, and she got cold feet. Stupid, if you ask me'– He didn't. Why was she telling him all this again? –'He's a daft bloke, mind you, but they made a decent couple. She's so bossy; she should have just stayed with the one person who could actually tolerate her.'

Draco didn't know how to respond. Not that he cared about the weasel and Granger's love life, but he had to concur with Padma. "Daft" and "bossy" really did hit the nail on the head.

'Uh-huh,' he uttered impassively, shuffling through his memos.

Padma just pursed her lips, evidently disappointed by his curt and indifferent reaction. Why was she into him again? He was always stand-offish towards her, and yet, she never ceased to try to engage his attention. Was she really so shallow as to only respond to his – Leon's – looks?

'Well, you'll realise soon enough that she can be quite insufferable,' his colleague lectured. 'I for one cannot imagine working with her –'

'Padma,' Draco interrupted, still not meeting her gaze, 'as much as I appreciate the inside scoop, I am positive Miss Granger will be a pleasure to work with. She's agreed to this after all. Besides, my reporting will focus on her career, not her love affairs.'

That surely shut her up. Draco did not want the working atmosphere to be tense, yet he still preferred the silence over his colleague's incessant and unnerving gossip. This morning couldn't pass quickly enough.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

It was almost noon when the letter arrived. Owls couldn't directly reach her office, what with the Ministry being located underground and the windows merely enchanted to show the outside, so there was an in-house post room with the sole responsibility of carrying and sending out mail to each department. Hermione thanked the young delivery wizard – he must have been a Hogwarts student working over the winter break – and carefully broke the _Daily Prophet_ 's seal. She had been expecting the letter, so it didn't come as a surprise.

The witch had been wary at first when the editor-in-chief had asked her to give interviews for the _Prophet_ ; she and the biggest newspaper in wizarding Britain didn't have the rosiest history after all. However, it turned out that he had strong arguments and honest intentions.

Rita Skeeter no longer wrote for the _Prophet_ , but that did not deter her from publishing rubbish. Moreover, Hermione didn't hold all the aces anymore: Skeeter had eventually confessed to being an Animagus, paid a hefty fine, and by default rid Hermione of any useful leverage. Hence, a bit of good publicity couldn't hurt, especially now with a career to consider. Besides, the extra Galleons were a welcome bonus. She shrugged approvingly at that thought, unfolding the parchment and focusing on the elegant handwriting:

_Dear Miss Granger_

_I would like to thank you on behalf of the_ Daily Prophet _for accepting our request to publish a reportage on your person. My name is Leon Boswell, and I will be writing for this project, as well as conducting the interviews with you._

_Mr Cuffe has kindly instructed me to arrange a meeting for next Monday. I suggest we meet over lunch to get acquainted; does one o'clock suit you? Should the date not be at your convenience, please do not hesitate to make another suggestion, in which case I will gladly accommodate your wishes._

_Sincerely_

_Leon Boswell_  
Junior Correspondent  
Daily Prophet _, London_

 _That's one civilised bloke_ was Hermione's first thought. His hand was rather impressive, too. She caught herself wondering what he might be like in person, but shook off the unprofessional thought. She would be meeting this Leon soon enough, and for all she knew, he might be an unpleasant prat. He could be whiffy. Then again, how could someone who wrote like this smell bad? (It sounded like a reasonable correlation in her head.) Hermione held the letter closer to her face. It smelt predominantly of parchment and ink – which was blatantly obvious – but she could have sworn she detected a nuance of freshly ground coffee and a musky, virile cologne …

What in Godric's name was she doing?

As if having seared her fingers, Hermione suddenly let go of the letter. Surely, she felt a little lonely, but being attracted to a sodding piece of parchment? She ought to have more self-control and self-respect than that! She straightened herself, exhaled importantly, and wrote a reply saying the suggested time and date suited her nicely and that she was looking forward to meeting him. _If he only knew how much_ … Hermione scolded herself again and stood to break off for lunch. What was wrong with her?

She decided to drop the letter off at the delivery office in person before leaving for lunch. Due to Magicking everything into moving, she rarely left her seat for the better part of the day, and hence felt the need to stretch her legs every once in a while. Normally, she would spend her lunch break taking a stroll around Muggle London and grabbing some takeaway, but she was supposed to be meeting up with Neville today, and he had insisted they eat someplace "heated and not-outside-in-the-bloody-cold".

Her former classmate waited in the spacious entrance hall; hands shoved inside his jeans pockets and, like her, having discarded his wizard robes in preparation for an outing into the Muggle world. When he caught sight of her, he gave a cordial smile. Hermione waved in recognition.

'Hullo Hermione,' he greeted her. 'How's your day going?'

'Hey, Neville! Fine … I guess,' she replied, pinching the bridge of her nose. 'The usual January madness. So many of our staff are still on holiday leave and those who came back early'– she jerked a thumb towards herself –'are left to juggle their entire workload.'

'I can imagine,' the Auror said with a sympathetic half-smile. 'It's no different with us. And it's mostly paperwork, too. Oh well,' he sighed, 'let's not talk about work, shall we? Anything in particular you want to eat?'

Hermione felt her lips curl up appreciatively. 'I am kind of craving pizza,' she confessed as though it were something inappropriate. 'There's this little Italian place nearby, what do you think?'

'Sounds fantastic.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Hmm, this is delicious,' Hermione moaned with sheer content, closing her eyes and relishing the taste of melted cheese in her mouth.

'You can say that again,' Neville nodded feverishly. 'How come we never had this at school?'

'My thoughts exactly! It's always been one of my favourites, at home.'

'Understandably.' Her friend swallowed another bite. 'Listen, Hermione, I know I suggested that we not discuss work, but I wanted to tell you something.'

'Alright, go ahead.' Hermione looked at him expectantly.

'I'm rethinking my career,' he said. 'It's not that I feel incapable of doing my job, I just don't know if I can fight forever. Harry might be destined for that, but it's not what I imagine myself doing in ten years. I was thinking … and please don't laugh, Hermione. I thought I might apply for the post of Herbology teacher at Hogwarts.'

His cheeks turned pink, and Hermione's mouth fell open ever so slightly, but no sound escaped her lips.

'Anyway, Professor Sprout wrote me the other day. She planned on retiring by the end of next year and suggested me for the position. Of course, I'd have to study further, but I would have a year and a half to prepare. I know I'm young and all, but if Pomona expressly asks McGonagall to employ me … well, she might agree. All the more considering most people don't want to become teachers these days; have you heard about the atmosphere at Hogwarts? It sounds awful. The children are having nightmares, nearly all of them. So … I thought if I could help, I'd do it.'

'Wow, Neville!' beamed Hermione. 'That's a brilliant idea! You've always got a knack for Herbology, and I can only imagine how great you'd be with kids.'

'So you think I should do it?'

'Absolutely,' she confirmed. 'Hannah's got the Leaky Cauldron, hasn't she? That means you'll always have a place to stay.' The Hufflepuff prefect had also returned to Hogwarts after the end of the War. She and Neville started seeing each other back then and had been together ever since. They were a lovely couple and shared a flat above the Leaky Cauldron; after Tom had passed away the previous year, Hannah bought the place with the inheritance her mother had bequeathed to her. 'And if things get tight money wise, you could always work part-time at the Ministry.'

'I suppose I could,' said Neville. 'But I want to focus on studying. There is so much I need to learn before I can teach the subject.'

The restaurant's door chimed, and Hermione's eyes darted towards the tall, young man who had just entered. His dark hair fell onto his brow, and he walked with slightly hunched shoulders, as if not wanting to be recognised. He seemed vaguely familiar.

'Neville,' she whispered. 'Isn't that Nott over there?'

'Nott as in Theodore Nott? The Slytherin bloke from our year?'

He stole a covert glance at the man who was now standing at the front counter. Hermione couldn't make out what he was saying, but he appeared to be paying for takeaway pizza – with Muggle money, mind you.

'No, it can't be …' Neville said incredulously. 'What would someone like him do in a place like this?'

'Buying pizza, I reckon,' answered Hermione, her lips pressed together in stifled amusement at the image of Theodore Nott ordering pizza on the phone.

'Bit suspicious, don't you think?'

'Ever the Auror, huh?' retorted Hermione. 'He's got every right to be in here. I admit I wouldn't have expected it … But then again, I haven't given the guy a moment's thought in over four years.'

'Do you think they have changed?' asked Neville carefully, still sneaking glances at the former Slytherin who was now leaving with two pizza boxes in hand. 'You know … Malfoy's lot.'

Hermione shortly pondered on his question before she replied. 'I'm not sure … but I suppose so, yes. At least Malfoy has, as far as I can judge. He shows up at the Ministry every so often; probably doing what his father did all those years before the War started.'

'So … bribing and threatening innocents?' concluded Neville, warily lifting an eyebrow.

'No, not like that,' said Hermione, shaking her head which caused her curls to wobble about. 'I think he's actually making proper donations and all that.'

Neville scratched his nose. 'Fair enough,' he said. 'I can't say I ever liked the bloke, but I suppose everyone deserves a second chance.'

'Almost everyone,' corrected Hermione softly, staring down at her plate. They had reached the topic they always tried to avoid. Neville seemed to think the same thing, hastily changing the subject.

'So, the gala tonight … are you bringing anyone?'

As if that particular subject was any better, Hermione thought bitterly.

'I don't know, should I?'

'Frankly, Hermione, no,' replied Neville. 'If you don't want to bring anyone, you shouldn't. Who's to judge? Apart from Skeeter, that is, but she's not worth anyone's attention.'

'You're right. And regardless, I don't have anyone to ask. Ron's certainly out of the question …'

'Don't go down that road, Hermione,' interjected Neville. 'It's only natural that you two aren't as close as before. Don't beat yourself up.'

'I know, I know,' sighed Hermione wistfully. 'I suppose I could always write Viktor …'

'Absolutely not,' Neville objected rigorously. 'That bloke's been madly in love with you, and still is, for all we know. He'd probably drop everything on the spot and Apparate to your side if you wrote him. It's not fair.'

Hermione rubbed her forehead, regretting having mentioned the idea. She was being silly.

'You're probably right about that, too' she yielded, her eyebrows drooping ever so slightly. 'How come you know me so well, Neville Longbottom?'

The young Auror chuckled endearingly, shoved his dark blond hair away from his face and leaned forward to meet her eyes. 'Because, despite being able to keep secrets when it matters, you're like an open book to those you feel comfortable with, Hermione Granger.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco felt a wave of relief wash over his body once he stepped back into his flat at noon. The awkward tension at the office had made work uncomfortable, to say the least, and he was glad to finally call it a day.

He had spent the better part of the morning proofreading his colleagues' articles – since that task was commonly left to the junior writers – and thinking up questions he might ask Granger. Draco still had a hard time wrapping his mind around the fact that he would be meeting her soon. He had completely ignored her during their final year at Hogwarts; he just couldn't rid himself of the image of her lying on the floor, screaming, her eyes searching his, pleading for help …

Draco squeezed his eyes shut and jerked them open again, trying to lose the memory. He consciously forced his attention back to the present: Theo. Lunch. Gala. Change. Thirty minutes until he would be himself again.

He had been playing the role of Leon for two years now, but there were certain things – private things – that Draco couldn't grow fully accustomed to. In the end, it wasn't his body, yet it succumbed to the same needs and answered to the same stimuli, which could prove annoyingly complicated at times. The donor wasn't lacking in any department, however, that didn't change the fact that Draco felt uneasy about it and was ever so reluctant when it came to intimacy while being transformed. He had by all means been curious, and hence tried it once, back in York. She had been a pretty Muggle bartender with a proclivity for French tourists. It was a night he'd sooner forget.

He scowled at the memory; he seemed unable to think about anything that wasn't upsetting. Thankfully, Theo would be over soon.

Draco stretched his arms and made tea, sitting down in his armchair and picking up the book he had been rereading as of late. It was a Muggle novella called _Animal Farm_ , and he found it rather enlightening. Muggles apparently faced the same social and political issues as witches and wizards, and it fascinated Draco that neither society was exempt from bias, bigotry, and hatred. In the end, it all came down to power and achieving it at any cost; an aspiration which sickened him now. Back when he had been writing for the _Yorkshire Herald_ , Draco had published a review of the book, along with harsh criticism applied to the wizarding world. It had set the ball rolling for a series of similar articles, most of them very well received. Later, Cuffe, who had been in dire need of personnel able to help reestablish the _Prophet_ 's reputation, had accepted Draco's application in an instant.

Somewhere outside, a distant church clock chimed half noon, and Draco felt a familiar prickling sensation emerging from his toes and fingertips. As opposed to assuming another person's looks, the change back was not nearly as nasty, and Draco had come to associate the pins and needles with pure relaxation.

Once it had stopped, he heaved a sigh of relief and stood to change into more formal wear for the gala. Draco browsed through his wardrobe and eventually settled on a charcoal plaid suit with a white dress shirt and a black tie; smart but simple, and not at all attention-grabbing. Matching dress robes would later finish the look. For now, Draco hung the blazer and robes over a chair and returned to the living room.

The mantlepiece clock indicated five minutes to one, and Draco drew his wand to remove the wards on the Floo-connection which he normally kept up for everyone but himself; he did not care for unbidden guests. No sooner had he put away his wand than green flames blazed up in the fireplace, his best friend stepping out and strutting into the room.

'Don't you look dapper today,' Theo greeted him with a grin, his ebon eyes twinkling with playful malice. They shook hands and clasped each other's shoulders in a half-embrace.

'And you seem rather chipper, _Sherman_. Am I right to assume you've had a clown for breakfast?'

'Can't have,' retorted Theo, 'since you're still very much alive.'

'Touché,' Draco conceded and pursed his lips in approval. He truly appreciated the witty, playful banter they shared. It was something he had never been able to do with his childhood cronies and was hence ever so grateful for having a friend with whom he could spar on an intellectual level.

Theo unclasped his cloak and tossed it over the back of a nearby chair before seating himself on the sofa, Slytherin-style: slouching but in a haughty way.

'Don't you have to offer me tea or anything?' he jibed, inspecting his fingernails.

Draco rolled his eyes in mock exasperation and Summoned a tea tray from the kitchen.

'Now what's for lunch?' he enquired.

'Use your eyes, mate,' said Theo and cocked his head towards the two pizza boxes he had put onto the coffee table.

'Excellent,' Draco approved and sat down across Theo, opening the topmost carton. Since the food inside was still steaming hot, he surmised that his friend had used a Warming Charm.

'One of the perks of working at Gringotts,' stated Theo as he pulled the other box towards himself, 'I always have enough of the paper scraps Muggles call money.'

'How much do I owe you?'

'Don't worry about it,' Theo insisted and treated himself to a slice. 'Just pay next time.'

'Sure will,' promised Draco, taking a bite of the Italian dish he had become so fond of. 'This is good,' he commented.

'It came with a hint of lion.'

'Come again?' Draco raised an eyebrow.

'Granger and Longbottom were at the restaurant where I bought these,' explained Theo. 'They were trying to be stealthy, but there's no way anyone could've missed that fuzzy mess she calls hair.'

'Longbottom? How desperate _is_ she?' jeered Draco. Theo simply gave an "I couldn't care less"-half shrug, continuing to eat in silence.

'So,' drawled Theo once he had finished his pizza. 'I've been wondering … don't you have to shave twice?'

Draco gave an amused snort.

'That's what keeps you awake at night?'

'Just answer the question, mate.'

'No, I don't,' said Draco. 'There are a few things that aren't affected by the potion. Don't ask why, though. It doesn't really make sense to me either.'

'What else, other than your … grooming?' Theo put more emphasis on the last word than would have been necessary; he was hardly able to stifle a laugh.

Draco rolled his eyes. How old was he? Eleven?

'You can't escape illnesses,' he explained. 'If it were that easy to overcome a fatal disease, everyone would just Polyjuice them away. No, that's certainly not possible. The same applies to your general physical condition. Remember Moody?'– Draco himself remembered their former teacher all too vividly –'He, the impostor that is, always looked normal … well, as normal as anyone can look while impersonating Moody … Anyway, let's just say he looked well-fed, while the real Moody wasn't exactly a picture of health, what with being held in a sodding trunk for so long.'

'I see,' nodded Theo. 'So how do you come by all the hairs?'

'You're quite inquisitive today, mate. Are you positive you're not scheming anything?'

'Again, just answer the bloody question,' Theo let out a frustrated sigh. 'Since when do you care anyway?'

Draco did care, actually, but Theo had always been aloof when it came to personal matters. The light, quick-witted side of him was simply the one he chose to offer Draco these days. He suspected Theo somehow needed to compensate for all those years spent silently brooding at Hogwarts – it was only in their final year that he had taken a step towards becoming Draco's friend.

'Well,' he continued, 'ever since I started doing this, I've been experimenting around with the potion quite a bit. I discovered that a draught which contains a mere duplicate of the hair bears the same result as one with the original ingredient.'

'So you simply need one sodding hair?' queried Theo. 'That's it?'

'Yes, and no. The original ingredient mustn't be older than twelve months, or it won't work. And the source must be alive, of course.' Draco shifted to a more comfortable position. 'I've already gone back to France twice. I put the Muggle under a permanent Tracking Charm, so finding him was never an issue; even when he moved to Paris recently.'

'And then what, you wait until he needs a bloody haircut?'

'Of course not. I lure him someplace unobserved, Stun him, pluck a hair, and modify his memory afterwards,' said Draco matter-of-factly, taking a sip from the glass of water he had just Summoned.

'And here I thought you had softened beyond hope,' chortled Theo. 'Still a Slytherin to the core then?'

'Always,' affirmed Draco and smirked mischievously at his friend, relieved that Theo had stopped asking questions. His curiosity unnerved him a little, although he couldn't pinpoint as to why.

'It's Blaise's birthday tomorrow, by the way. Lest you forget,' reminded Theo.

'Okay,' said Draco indifferently. 'And what about it? Planning to propose?'

'Mature, Malfoy, very mature.'

'Said the man who laughs about removing one's body hair.' Draco held up a palm as if to prove a point.

Theo clicked his tongue. 'Shut it, mate. Blaise just told me to tell you, Pansy's asked about you, is all.'

 _Great_. Just what he needed. His jaw clenched.

'Look, mate,' Theo continued, sensing Draco's indignation, 'it's nothing to do with me. I just happen to be the lucky messenger.'

'It's okay, I know you can't be bothered by that rubbish,' reassured Draco, pinching the bridge of his nose. He couldn't believe Pansy was still into him. After all these years of completely avoiding her, ignoring her letters, even telling her to sod off – she still wasn't ready to give up.

They had never even been together, really. Granted, they'd shared a couple of romps towards the end of their fifth year, but he'd been a hormone-driven teenager for Salazar's sake! Suffice it to say she had simply _been_ there – always clinging, holding on to his every word. It had been convenient (at the time, at least), but if Draco had known she would never again allow him peace, he would have gladly found somebody else to shag.

Then again, when his task to kill Albus Dumbledore had inevitably turned into a downward spiral, he'd bestowed little to no consideration upon his future love life.

'Funny,' Draco eventually said, 'you would think a Slytherin would be more sly about wanting to see somebody. Pathetic, even for her.'

'She's gone completely mental if you ask me. Apparently, she claims to be entitled to marry but another member of the bleeding Sacred Twenty-Eight … of course only taking into account the ridiculously handsome ones; which breaks it down to you. Makes Blaise all the more loony seeing as he's been trying to get into her knickers for quite a while now.' Theo swigged down the rest of his tea before excusing himself to use the loo.

Draco could only agree. Most of their old Slytherin gang had moved on from all the bias, the Dark Arts, and the ludicrous pure-blood supremacy values; even Greg seemed to slowly come to his senses – Draco assumed Vincent's death had something to do with it. Only Pansy hadn't developed one bit. If Gregory Goyle – hardly the most self-reflective bloke on the planet – managed to at least partially leave the "old ways" behind him, it left only one reasonable explanation for Pansy's disposition: she actually still believed in that shite.

That, and she must be beyond desperate for attention. How thick of her to presume she could impress him by dropping brazen hints! Draco had known for a very long time that Pansy Parkinson would never play but a minor part in his life – his teenage life, mind you. And although he'd never been in love with someone, he was convinced that what he'd shared with Pansy before had not even come close to love – whatever it may feel like.

His train of thoughts was interrupted when Theo walked back into the sitting room.

'I'd better be going,' he said, reaching for his cloak. 'Unlike some people, I have to work _after_ lunch hour as well.'

'Please, I know you like your job,' said Draco and stood to see his friend off. 'Besides, it's not like tonight's gala will be any fun. Hell, my parents might even show up.'

Draco frowned at that thought but chose to ignore the building agitation.

'Oh, and tell Blaise that he has my blessing,' he added. 'Make sure to bring across just _how much_ I'd endorse a fling between the two.'

Theo flashed him a devilish grin. 'I will.'

He grabbed a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fireplace, and with a _swoosh_ , he was gone.

 


	4. The New Year's Gala

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively spoiler-free TRIGGER WARNING: (minor) "seksueel geweld" – use a translation tool of your choice if you want to know what's coming. In any case, proceed at your own risk.

— CHAPTER FOUR —

_**The New Year's Gala** _

When Hermione stepped out of one of the Ministry's many gilded fireplaces, she couldn't help but mouth a "wow" in sheer awe. The Atrium was decorated beautifully; hundreds – no, it must have been thousands – of iridescent spheres floated underneath the peacock blue ceiling, casting their light upon the dark wood floor like a starry night sky. A memorial in the centre of the hall had replaced the once atrocious wartime statue, spheres circling and illuminating the site before zooming back up to the ceiling.

Mindlessly, Hermione helped herself to a beverage offered by one of the many hovering trays. While staring at the impressive scenery, she took a large sip from her glass, almost immediately regretting her decision not to pay closer attention to its content before doing so. The first snigger she managed to stifle, but failed miserably after that, giggling uncontrollably into her palm.

More than a few party guests turned around; most showing decorum through a sympathetic smile and by saying things like "Don't worry Hermione, it happened to all of us once" or "It'll pass soon enough". Others outright gaped at her, raising their eyebrows and apparently piqued by her accidental misconduct. And then there was a distinctly pale and pointed face glowering at her from a distance …

Before Hermione could begin to ponder over Draco Malfoy's expression, someone cleared their throat behind her. Someone very familiar. She pivoted and looked into a pair of bright green eyes.

'Ha … ha-ha … Harry,' she tittered. 'I … ha … hi –'

'You've had Gigglewater, haven't you?' he teased, grinning broadly and pulling her into a hug.

Hermione, unable to form a proper sentence, nodded sheepishly.

'Wha-haha – what iz-he-hit?' she bubbled when Harry reached for her shoulder to pick something off her dress robes; it was a long, ginger hair – Crookshanks's hair.

'I hope that doesn't belong to one of my brothers.'

Ginny emerged from behind Harry, flashing her a gleeful smirk.

'Ha-hi, Gi-hee-ny.'

Ginny's eyes twinkled with amusement. 'Let it all out, Hermione,' she said, biting her lower lip and patting Hermione on the back. Thankfully, it only took a few more minutes until she was able to talk normally again, merely an occasional snigger here and there bespeaking the Gigglewater's fading effects.

'This is so embarrassing,' Hermione muttered, her cheeks adopting a deep scarlet hue in response to the unwanted attention. 'Why would they even serve this?'

'Oh, don't mind these stuck-up twits,' said Ginny in a stage whisper. 'Come on, let's have a proper drink. Three Butterbeer Stouts please,' she ordered clearly, and three bottles appeared out of nowhere. Despite having been part of the wizarding world for half of her life now, the many wonders of magic did not cease to amaze Hermione. She snagged one of the bottles and sipped carefully, ever so anxious that another giggle might cause her to spill the drink.

'Why is your hair all messy?' Hermione asked, indicating at Ginny.

'Is it still? Blimey,' she said, using her hand to straighten out all the bumps and flyaways. 'Harry insisted that we take the motorcycle.'

'Why does it sound like you're complaining?' asked Harry. 'If I recall correctly you were enjoying yourself.'

'Maybe,' conceded Ginny, taking a sip from her Butterbeer, 'but it didn't have to be on the one night I decide to dress up, did it?'

Instead of answering, Harry drew Ginny closer and planted a gentle kiss on her temples, settling the matter. Ever since Mr Weasley had repaired Sirius's old motorcycle (and added an Invisibility Booster), Harry used every opportunity to fly it, even if it meant ruining his girlfriend's hairstyle. Luckily, Ginny wasn't the type of woman who fussed over such things.

'So when does the season recommence?' Hermione asked her. Ginny played Chaser for the Holyhead Harpies – and rather successfully, too, having placed second in the League the year prior. That (Hermione knew now) had qualified them for the European Cup, which meant that Ginny had been engrossed in her training ever since summer, what with competing for two cups at once.

'Next weekend,' she replied. 'So I still have a couple of days left to relax and do nothing. I make Harry do all the chores … in return I let him win when we play one-on-one'– she winked at Hermione –'You look stunning, by the way.'

'Thank you,' said Hermione and blushed – not entirely sure whether it was because of the compliment or the innuendo. The jade-green gown she had bought for the occasion, complete with a matching cloak, made her feel rather pretty. 'So do you,' she added. Ginny was sporting a teal ensemble which made her fiery red hair pop.

'Let's just say we all look fabulous,' said Ginny. 'But Harry and I got something much more important to tell you.'

'Are you finally …'

Ginny grinned broadly and nodded, snaking an arm around Harry, who mirrored her motion. Hermione let out an involuntarily girlish squeal, hugging both of them at once.

'That's fantastic news! Congratulations!' she exclaimed cheerfully. 'Well … how did it happen?'

Hermione could see Harry's face flush, mumbling something into his (non-existent) beard.

'I asked him,' Ginny revealed matter-of-factly. 'No, but really. We've talked about it many times … and I happened to address it first now that we've become serious about it. But Harry still went and got me a ring'– she held her left hand aloft, presenting a delicate gold band with a bright diamond in its setting –'What do you think?'

'It's beautiful,' said Hermione. 'So have you decided on a date yet?'

'No,' said Harry, suddenly sounding serious. 'It's still very fresh. Besides, we're both completely immersed in our jobs at the moment.' He continued in a secretive tone: 'We've recently received news of various attacks all over Europe. Norway, Austria, Greece – the list of places goes on. Unfortunately, we can't do much of anything right now unless it concerns British or Irish territory.'

Hermione's eyes widened. 'Attacks? What kind of attacks?'

'We don't really have an answer to that just yet, and the other Ministries won't tell us much,' replied Harry with a frown, evidently frustrated about being kept in the dark. 'All we know is that there's no particular pattern. There have been bodies found, some dead and others just barely alive. Some survivors can't stop screaming or crying, and then others are incapable of saying anything at all. So obviously there's murder _and_ torture … it's gruesome. And what with the attacks being so random, there's nothing to go after, you know? If they'd only left some distinct mark – a sign – anything … we might be able to connect the attacks to a single motive. But I have a feeling the culprits aren't willing to make it that easy. My guess is, they're not after some sort of twisted glory, but seriously plotting to throw Europe into a ring of chaos.'

Hermione was dumbfounded for a second. Apparently, this piece of information was still exclusive to the Auror office, seeing as nothing about those attacks had been addressed in the papers yet. Before she could react to the unsettling news, however, a familiar voice joined them.

'Oi! Why the long faces?'

'Ron!' Hermione said, turning around to face her friend. They hugged briefly before Hermione's eyes fell upon the witch beside him. The kind expression she wore was framed by chin-length and beautifully sleek black hair, her beaming smile nearly extending out to both almond-shaped eyes. Standing next to Ron, she was conspicuously short.

'Hermione, this is Ayano,' Ron introduced her.

'Konoe Ayano, nice to meet you,' Ayano said, tilting her head forward ever so slightly before extending out a hand. She had but a faint foreign accent.

'Nice to meet you, too,' Hermione echoed, shaking Ayano's hand. 'You must be working at the Department of International Magical Cooperation,' she surmised. Since Ron was neither a Ministry employee nor a benefactor, she was bound to be affiliated with the Ministry in some way; otherwise, they wouldn't have been invited.

'Yes, for the Trading Standards Body,' she confirmed. After introducing herself to Harry and Ginny, she turned back to Hermione. 'I came here two months ago. I am a wand-maker, you see, and I work on wand-wood trading regulations between the UK and Japan … it's not as boring as it sounds,' she added meekly.

'Boring? Not at all – it's such an interesting subject!' Hermione countered excitedly. 'I've read so much about it! In _The Art of Creation: A Guide to Wand-Making_ , Pritchell Stabbins states that a single woodfibre out of place can alter the quality of the wand decisi –'

'Hermione,' Ron chuckled, 'You're rambling.'

'Oh – right, sorry.' She felt her face flush.

 _Leave it to me to scare her off_.

Ayano, however, smiled warmly at her. 'He is correct, that Mr Stabbins – wand-making really is … uh, how do you say … compurex?'

'Complex,' corrected Ron, apparently torn between being polite to his date, and taunting Hermione for her bookishness.

'So, Ayano,' said Harry, coming to rescue, 'what's the name of the Japanese school again? Makotoro?'

She rectified it was Mahoukoto, which launched an animated discussion about the many differences between their schools and countries. Hermione enjoyed the cultural exchange very much – she was always eager to soak up any piece of knowledge she could get her hands on. But what really made her happy was the realisation that she actually _liked_ Ayano. She didn't have to pretend to be interested in her; the wand-maker was particularly polite, educated, and overall pleasant company.

When Ron and Hermione had first broken up, she'd always felt a jealous sting to her stomach whenever he would be seeing someone else, and vice versa; Ron had had a tendency to clench his jaw so hard it would render him speechless. Hermione hadn't been very successful in the dating department so far, but instead of begrudging Ron his date, she felt genuinely happy for them. It was definitely a much-appreciated development.

It turned out they had met through Percy, who was head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation. Ron kept complaining about Ayano and Percy talking about wand-woods and other trade goods for ages – reminding everyone vividly of Percy's infamous report on cauldron bottoms.

At precisely 7.30pm, Kingsley Shacklebolt welcomed all party guests and invited them to take a seat at the several large, round tables popping up all throughout the Atrium. Hermione walked around searching for her name plate, and eventually sat down next to Neville and Hannah on one side (which made her very happy), and to an unknown, good-looking wizard on the other. Before she could so much as say hello to her neighbour, however, Hermione wavered, suddenly shifting uncomfortably in her chair. She glanced up in irritation and, for the second time that night, met a pair of very familiar, grey eyes.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

As soon as Granger locked eyes with his, Draco averted his gaze, allowing his signature sneer to contort his features. Of course she would have noticed his incessant glares eventually, especially now that they were sitting around the same table. He ought to be more careful.

Draco had been shooting glimpses at Granger all night; he simply couldn't help it. How was he supposed to act professionally around her come Monday? He was torn between feelings of guilt and old antipathy, and his ego didn't help the case either – being nice to Granger would certainly be no easy feat.

He almost hadn't recognised her at first, what with her tell-tale bird's nest pinned back into a bun; however, the Gigglewater-incident had very quickly cleared up any doubts he'd had concerning her identity. Draco couldn't help but acknowledge that her outfit suited her, and – in spite of himself – found that her laugh (though beverage-induced) sounded rather charming. It occurred to him that he'd never heard her laugh before – at least not out of joy, mind you; it wasn't as though he had ever given her any reason for it.

All of a sudden, tremendous amounts of food appeared before his eyes, the table creaking under the weight of countless bowls, platters, and gravy boats. Draco's stomach growled conspicuously at the sight, so he piled his plate with sheperd's pie and mixed vegetables – the mug of mulled mead he ordered appearing in front of him instantaneously. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Granger helping herself to pumpkin curry and rice, chatting animatedly with the wizard to her right. Draco forced himself to concentrate on his food.

_What in Salazar's name is wrong with me? Stop staring!_

Needless to say, the feast was sublime. After the remnants of the main course had vanished, mountains of sweets, tarts, puddings, and cakes appeared in their place. Draco tried to ignore everything and everyone else around him while enjoying his rhubarb crumble, yet he was unsuccessful. Some people still seemed to care about his family (or his family's wealth) enough to try and engage him in a conversation: How's business? – Good, as usual. – Whether he had heard about the retirement plans of some random Ministry chap? – No, but please, do tell. ( _Please don't_.)

Draco's glance darted back to his former condisciples once more, noticing that Longbottom was affectionately picking a crumb off Hannah Abbott's nose – so Granger couldn't have been going out with him after all. Why he bothered with all of this, he couldn't say – hence he held accountable his journalistic curiosity.

'Mr Malfoy?'

A husky, quavery voice brought Draco back to the present. It belonged to the elderly wizard seated next to him, whose name he hadn't cared to memorise.

'Apologies, Sir,' he mumbled. 'I was lost in thought there for a moment.'

'Only natural,' the old man said understandingly. 'Now, what is your opinion on the recent developments in –'

But Draco never found out what recent developments the elder wizard had been about to address. He thought himself lucky for a split-second before he realised that the person who had rendered his neighbour quiet was none other than Narcissa Malfoy.

'Mother,' Draco said and stood, pecking her cheek.

'Draco, dear,' his mother said tenderly. 'Come, let us walk for a bit. We do not want to disturb the other guests, do we?'

Draco sighed inwardly – this night would be even more tedious than anticipated.

'Why are you here?' he enquired, seeing his mother away from the tables and toward a secluded corridor.

'Honestly, Draco,' Narcissa replied, clicking her tongue, 'one might think you didn't want to see me at all.'

While he loved his mother immensely, any conversation with her was bound to bring him to the end of his tether. He preferred to keep the encounters to a necessary minimum. When he didn't answer, Narcissa continued, 'You barely show up at home anymore, your letters are two-liners at best – if there's an opportunity to see you, I will take it.'

Draco almost felt guilty. Almost.

'So why didn't you get here sooner?' he asked.

'I did not care for the feast,' she said, 'nor did your father.'

'Where is he?'

'At the Manor. He sends his regards.'

_I'm sure he does._

'Has your evening been enjoyable so far?' Narcissa asked.

'I suppose.'

'You suppose?' His mother wrinkled her nose indignantly. She had always been ridiculously proper and didn't approve of brusqueness.

'The food was delicious, as a matter of fact. The other guests bore me, and I am still not entirely sure as to why I am here,' Draco listed.

'You know why you're here, Draco. We are still one of the most generous benefactors of the Ministry, and hence need to make an appearance. And no'– she spoke up before Draco even had the chance to object –'your father has not conferred on you the responsibility on a whim. He isn't as welcome here as he used to be, and we can hardly send a house-elf, can we?'

Draco gritted his teeth and said nothing. While he could understand why his father chose to remain out of the public's eye, especially on events like this, Draco resented him for it all the same. He was the one who had to suffer the consequences, after all.

'I couldn't help but notice you came by yourself tonight,' Narcissa said.

Draco all but rolled his eyes. Could this conversation possibly become any more aggravating?

'How very observant of you,' he deadpanned, which earned him a subtly raised eyebrow.

'Why didn't you ask the lovely young lady I suggested?' Narcissa asked, ostensibly unruffled by his impudence.

'Because, Mother,' said Draco, 'I am old enough to make my own decisions. Unless, of course, you think I am not, in which case I will gladly retire from my duties.'

Narcissa's nostrils flared. She pestered him with the subject of marriage almost every time they met, and Draco was sick of her constant trying to find him a suitable match. He felt far from ready for such a thing; besides, he had never met anyone whom he considered a serious option. Earlier that week, he had briefly contemplated asking Padma to come to the gala with him, just for the sake of bringing someone – a ludicrous idea, of course. Padma didn't even _know_ she was working with him.

Just when he was about to soothe Narcissa (she was his mother, after all), he spotted Granger shuffling past the corridor, with the strange wizard from their table in tow. His mother must have followed his gaze, because she turned around a moment later, just to look down the empty hall.

'What is it, Draco?' Narcissa furrowed her brow.

'Nothing, Mother,' he mumbled and ran a hand through his hair. 'Well … sorry for talking out of turn.'

She nodded acceptingly. 'You know how much I care about you, don't you?'

'I do. But I'd rather you stopped interfering in my private life,' said Draco sincerely. 'Honestly, Mother, it's not helping. The more you pressurise me into finding someone – and marrying them – the less likely it is to happen. Besides, I have other things on my mind right now.'

'Such as?'

He was about to say "work", but seeing as his mother didn't know about his day job, he had better make something up.

'Um … you know that Theo works at Gringotts, right?'

'Theodore? Yes, I saw him just last week – he could use a haircut.'

'Well … he recently got an offer to work as a Curse-Breaker and'– _Come on, Draco, think of something_ –'and … he's asked me if I wanted to come with him.'

'You, a Curse-Breaker?' His mother looked at him sceptically.

'Yeah, I can't imagine myself doing it, either,' said Draco. 'But it had me thinking about my own life and …' He didn't know what to say, so he decided to go for the truth – partially, at least: 'Look, I'm just trying to figure out what I want. You know I don't particularly enjoy the life that has been imposed upon me, but I'll do it anyway. Let me make you an offer: you stop pestering me with the whole, "you're the Malfoy heir and must marry" bullshit –'

'Language, Draco!'

'And,' he carried on, unimpressed, 'I might agree to visit more. Or meet up somewhere outside the Manor, which I'd prefer, to be honest.'

Narcissa didn't answer right away. Draco could almost see the cogs spinning in her head.

'Fine,' she said eventually. 'And you will tell me more about what is going on in your life, yes?'

'As I said, if you cease the marriage-talk, I will,' Draco promised. It was fine by him. He wouldn't tell her his secret; not yet at least. Maybe someday she'd be ready for it.

Narcissa relaxed visibly. 'Thank you, Draco. I will be looking forward to seeing you more often from now on.'

 _What have I done?_ Draco thought (partly out of the habit of complaining about his mother), but admitted to feeling not too anxious about it.

'I think I will join the party for a bit,' his mother declared cheerfully – as far as Narcissa Malfoy could be considered a cheerful person. 'I spotted an old friend earlier. Are you coming?'

'No, I think I'll pass,' said Draco. 'I'll write you next week, alright?'

Narcissa kissed his forehead softly, turning around and leaving him alone in the corridor.

Yes, Draco would definitely call it a night. He knew he should stay for all the speeches and other dull items on the programme, yet the conversation with his mother had tired him beyond imagination, despite their compromise. Still brooding, he walked to the end of the corridor where he would turn right – leading him back to the Floo zone without having to return to the Atrium. He had just reached the corner when he froze in mid-step, almost walking in on a scene he would have rather missed. Draco backed away, watching from behind the corner; this looked awkward enough as it was without him barging in on them.

Granger was pressed against the wall, her many curls no longer in a bun and flying wildly about her head. Her face was flustered as the man pushed his body close, locking lips with her. Draco couldn't make out a single sound – they must have cast a Silencing Charm as not to be disturbed. Not too shabby a plan.

He should have left, of course, yet something impalpable kept him glued to the spot. The sight of Granger snogging this man was not just awkward; it seemed … off. He couldn't hear them, but saw enough to know that Granger wasn't enjoying the kiss in the slightest. Draco noticed her fists were clenched, her wrists being held down to her sides. She pressed her lips together tightly as to deter the stranger's tongue from slipping into her mouth; her eyes not closed, but wide open, frantic. She was scared.

'Come on. I know you want it,' the man growled. 'Don't tell me you _actually_ wanted to stretch your legs … or did you say "spread"?'

 _Hang on_ … Draco shouldn't be able to hear him! Then it occurred to him that the stranger must have cast a Silencing Charm indeed –on _her_. Draco's feet subconsciously carried him forward.

'Go on, touch yourself for me … you loved the attention before,' the man snarled, grinning maliciously and forcing her hand between her legs. Granger's face contorted into a silent scream. Her head tilted to the left, and it was then that she noticed Draco. Those eyes … he had seen them look at him like this before … haunting his very dreams. He would not stand idly by ever again.

'There you are,' Draco said loud and clearly, strutting towards them. The man let go at once, Draco glaring icily at him. He needn't even say another word, for the strange wizard retreated, turning on his heels and running towards the fireplaces. Before he reached them, however, Draco's Stunning Spell hit him in his back, and he fell to the floor.

' _Finite Incantatem_ ,' muttered Draco and flicked his wand at Granger. He could now hear her panting and sniffing, trying to regain her composure. She didn't say a word, simply staring at him with brown eyes widened in shock.

For a brief moment, Draco considered asking her if she were alright, at last deciding against it. The assaulter was immobilised, and she would have her friends to comfort her. Ignoring the witch's puzzled expression, he walked past her, heading straight for one of the fireplaces. Only when he stepped into the green flames did he hear Granger call his name. 


	5. The Two Reporters

— CHAPTER FIVE —

_**The Two Reporters** _

People were staring. Whispering. Pointing at her. Hermione tried her best to ignore them while walking down Diagon Alley, blinking against the sunlight. After all those years, she should have become immune to the glances, yet they kept vexing her. She knew those particular glances all too well, much to her chagrin; she had seen them many a time before, commonly ensuing after another one of Skeeter's ridiculous articles. How come people weren't tired of reading about her by now?

When she passed a newspaper stand, Hermione wasn't at all surprised to spot her slandered name adorning the cover of the newest edition of  _Witch Weekly_. Right next to "10 New Glamour Charms for Her" and "Bewitching Low-Calorie Cauldron Cake Recipes You Must Try" it read: "Hermione Granger: Desperate and Heartbroken".

She let out a sigh of frustration. Not again! Not another story about how she had been agonised by the ordeal of Ron leaving her – which hadn't even been the case! They had mutually agreed upon separating, but of course, Rita Skeeter would tell her readership otherwise. Anything to get back to "Little Miss Perfect", she thought, scowling.

Hermione had been hopeful back in their fifth year at Hogwarts when Skeeter had agreed to write the article for  _The Quibbler_ ; hopeful to elicit a change of mind in the sensationalist reporter. But of course, that very notion had been but gullible and foolish. Skeeter was as vile as ever, never ceasing to try and backbite Hermione in a misguided sense of retribution.

'If you wan' to read tha', you'll 'ave to pay for it,' croaked the saleswitch behind the stand.

Hermione flashed her a polite smile.  _Be kind, it's what they hate the most_.

'No, thank you,' she said. 'Whatever it says in there, it can't be interesting enough to make me want to waste a single Knut on that lousy excuse of a magazine.'

Hermione didn't wait for a response but turned on her heels and walked away, feeling slightly better after the opportunity to vent, if only for a little.

She would meet Leon Boswell (whom she hoped was a proper and qualified journalist unlike that aggravating Skeeter woman) at the Crup and Jarvey Inn, located in one of the smaller side streets of Diagon Alley.

Hermione was a tad early upon entering the restaurant, so she sat at the reserved table and ordered tea. Once the hot liquid bedewed her lips, her thoughts wandered back to the past weekend which she had spent at her parents' house – she'd been in dire need of some mollycoddling. Her mother had made them cup after cup of tea, and they'd watched telly together for hours on end.

Hermione had told her parents everything. She couldn't and wouldn't keep the assault a secret; at least not within the confines of her friends and family. Harry and Ginny had been the first to help; Harry immediately going and arresting the arsehole who had forced himself on her. Where would she be without her friends? She loved and needed them so very much.

The door to the restaurant opened, pulling Hermione's attention back to the present. The wizard who stepped inside couldn't have been anyone else but the reporter, seeing as it was precisely one o'clock and he was carrying a briefcase, his gaze immediately wandering in her direction.

He had a lean physique, dirty blond hair, and a delicately chiselled jawline. Hermione blushed instantly as she recalled her reaction to his letter from last week, now feeling completely validated in her assumption of his being a handsome bloke – he was  _very_  fit indeed.

_Concentrate._

He started walking towards her, his tall frame quickly slicing the distance between entrance and table.

'Miss Granger?' he asked, although judging from the look he gave her he must have been well aware of who she was. Hermione nodded, rising from her seat and shaking the hand he offered. His handshake was firm, but not rough. Well-mannered. Determined.

'Hello, it's nice to meet you,' she said, quickly adding, 'but please, it's Hermione. We must be about the same age anyway.'

'Leon,' he offered in return, taking a seat and clearing his throat. He looked rather tense. Could he be nervous?

'Would you like a cup of tea?' Hermione asked in an attempt to break the ice. 'I've already ordered some and took the liberty of getting you a cup, too … got here a bit early, you see.'

'Tea would be nice – thank you,' said Leon and Hermione waved her wand at the pot.

'Milk and sugar?'

'Just milk, thanks.'

The tea seemed to have a calming effect on him – the reporter relaxed visibly upon taking a sip.

'Thank you for meeting me today,' he said, a diffident smile tugging at his lips.

'I should be thanking  _you_!' Hermione beamed. Realising her voice had been louder than intended, she pursed her lips sheepishly and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She couldn't help but notice that Leon regarded her intently with slate blue eyes.

_Why does he look so puzzled? Is something stuck between my teeth? Oh Godric, please don't let there be anything between my teeth!_

'Shall we order something to eat?' he suggested.

Suddenly disturbingly aware of her vacant expression, Hermione cleared her throat.

'Yes, um … I'm starving actually,' she said and reached for the menu to hide behind for a moment. She felt jittery, in spite of herself.

'I'm afraid the recent publicity on you hasn't been very … flattering,' Leon told her after they had placed their order.

'I know,' said Hermione, knitting her brows. 'I just saw the headline before getting here.'

'Have you read the article?' the reporter enquired.

Hermione shook her head. 'Have you?'

He nodded curtly, bending down to his suitcase and pulling out the glossy magazine. 'And you might want to read it, too. It's always good to know what you're up against.' He shoved the newest issue of  _Witch Weekly_  towards her.

Hermione picked it up reluctantly, flipped through the pages until she found what she was looking for, and began to read:

_HERMIONE GRANGER: DESPERATE AND HEARTBROKEN_

_Famously successful, but also notoriously reckless War heroine Hermione Granger has always had a proclivity for standing in the spotlight,_ writes Rita Skeeter, Special Correspondent _. At last week's Ministry Gala celebrating the new year, Granger drank Gigglewater, allegedly "by accident", bursting out into a cackling fit of laughter for several long minutes and drawing everyone's attention to herself. Now, what with her inappropriately want-to-be-sexy dress robes, she must have known she would induce such a reaction – which leaves us wondering: was she doing it on purpose?_

_"We didn't even serve Gigglewater," said a member of the gala staff, who wishes to remain unnamed. Anonymity is more than understandable, especially if someone does not wish to stand next in line for her retaliation – Granger is known to happily tweak laws and use her fame as an advantage whenever she sees fit. Only recently did she exert her influence to pass a controversial law in favour of her infamous half-giant friend Rubeus Hagrid, and she would most likely not refrain from ruining somebody else's career without a qualm._

_No doubt her attempt at soliciting attention was specifically directed at none other than Ron "Heartbreaker" Weasley, who left Granger in pieces two years ago_ (see also the Witch Weekly Millennium Special Edition) _. He was accompanied by his stunningly beautiful girlfriend, Ayano Konoway. Since Ronald Weasley can hardly be described as Britain's most coveted heartthrob, it was undeniably his fame that has landed him in the arms of the gorgeous exotic._

 _Granger, of course, was furious to see her ex-lover with the woman who replaced her_ (see photo below)  _which is why it is not surprising at all that she threw herself at the next best bachelor she could find. Undoubtedly in an attempt to make Weasley jealous, the unfortunate target of her disputable flirtation skills was Nathan Woodthorpe, a handsome young wizard working for the Ludicrous Patents Office at the Department of Magical Games and Sports._

 _Seeing as Hermione "Bookworm" Granger showed up completely ruffled after having disappeared with Woodthorpe_ (see photo to the right) _, we have reason to believe that she has scared the poor man off, most likely in a desperate effort to seduce him. When will Granger finally learn to respect other people's boundaries? How many more men will fall victim to her games? We would like to remind you of Bulgarian bonbon and ex-Seeker Viktor Krum, who has been a complete and utter wreck ever since Granger toyed with him in order to make The Boy Who Lived jealous. Hence the only question that we must ask ourselves is the following: is Granger simply heartbroken – or mental?_

Hermione didn't speak a word.  _Mental?_  Skeeter was the one who had gone mental! She inspected the pictures once more. The first one showed her and Ayano, but it looked as though they were arguing – which, of course, hadn't been the case. The photographer must have caught a snippet of them talking about wand-woods … Hermione knew she tended to appear irritated when in reality she was just discussing something excitedly. In another photo, she could be seen chatting with Nathan. Nathan … that bloody prick. She clenched her jaw, feeling disgusted by seeing herself with him like that; laughing innocently. Unknowing.

The last picture featured Harry and Ginny, tending to her. She looked dishevelled and flustered … it must have been taken immediately after the assault; however, the incident itself had evidently remained a secret. Thank Godric for the Ministry's discretion on that.

Hermione looked back up at the reporter's face, who was clearly waiting for her to react. When she remained quiet, he said: 'Are you … um'– he cleared his throat again –'are you alright?'

Hermione was about to nod but eventually shook her head.

'This is so embarrassing,' she moaned, pushing the magazine back to Leon and resting her head against her palms. 'She can't be serious … I mean …  _I'm_  the one who needs to learn how to "respect other people's boundaries"?' Hermione quoted distastefully. She could feel heat rushing to her face. 'Can you believe her?'

'Skeeter is a terrible person,' said Leon. 'I met her once … she shouldn't be meddled with. Many tend to underestimate the power of words, and she certainly still holds that power – despite or maybe all the more because of the Animagus scandal. It only benefited her in the end, I'd say.'

'So you've heard of the whole affair?'

He nodded.

'Also about … let's say, my involvement in the matter?'

'Yes,' he affirmed, suddenly flashing her an amused, lopsided smirk. 'Quite cunning of you, if I may say so.'

'You think?' A flush crept up Hermione's face; the way he'd said it, it sounded like a compliment.

'Of course,' said Leon. 'How long did you keep her in a jar again?'

'A couple of weeks,' murmured Hermione sheepishly. 'But it's nothing I'm particularly proud of.'

'I don't see why you shouldn't be – she most definitely deserved it.'

'Yeah … I can handle the things she says about me for the most part – but what she says about Ron, or any of my friends really … they don't deserve it, just because Skeeter has a down on me.' Hermione scratched her head. 'Well,' she muttered absently, 'at least she didn't mention …'

'Mention what?' queried Leon when Hermione didn't finish her sentence.

In that very moment, however, the waiter appeared with their meals Levitating in front of him. Hermione had ordered cauliflower cheese and mash – it smelt delicious.

She welcomed the interruption – providing her with a few moments to collect herself and think about what exactly she was willing to disclose to the reporter. He was still a stranger, after all, and what with her most recent experience with strangers, she ought to be more careful.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco savoured every bite of his lamb chops, which were practically melting in his mouth, mint sauce rounding out the flavour. Granger had stopped talking anyway, and – against her better judgement – Draco knew exactly why. He decided not to iterate his question; if she wanted to explain, she would come forward on her own terms. In Draco's experience, to retreat was the most effective way of obtaining information sometimes.

Talking to Granger turned out to be easier than he'd expected. Maybe it was because of his intervention at the Ministry gala that he was able to look her in the eye without being overcome by insufferable amounts of guilt – he felt as though he had redeemed a piece of himself by stepping in that night; to a certain extent, at least.

Besides, she was being friendly. Something which shouldn't have surprised him, seeing as she hadn't the faintest inkling of who he really was. And not just friendly, mind you – she was a picture of the particular shyness that springs from being enamoured by someone but feeling ashamed of it. Her tone, her gestures, the way she kept blushing, fidgeting with her curls …

Draco thought back to the gala and how she had called out his name … had she wanted to talk to him? Thank him? Would she ever treat him with the same endearing bashfulness that she was now offering Leon?

'Is everything to your satisfaction?'

The waiter was back at their table.

'Yes, thank you,' said Granger after swallowing her bite. 'It's really good.'

Draco echoed her assessment, and the waiter left once he had filled their glasses with water from his wand.

'About the article,' Granger said suddenly, reaching for her glass and taking a sip. 'Skeeter didn't mention the incident that happened right before the last photo was taken.'

_Just as I thought. Stop pushing, and they'll come round._

'This bloke … Nathan …'

She paused, exhaling sharply and averting her gaze.

'I left the table with him. I thought we could just walk for a bit and talk in private, without anyone eavesdropping. But we … um'– her cheeks reddened and she scrunched up her face –'we ended up – you know … Merlin, this is so embarrassing …'

'You don't have to tell me … Hermione,' Draco said, entering unknown territory by uttering her given name. 'It's really none of my business.'

'It's not,' she agreed. 'And I can't put my finger on it, but I just have a feeling this might be an important piece of information if we're going to work together. Like you said, it's good to know what you're up against, or in this case, what you're working with. So ... we start kissing, and then he's … he turned violent.' Granger's face went blank, her voice becoming strangely monotonous. 'He cast a Silencing Charm on me and pinned me in place so I couldn't reach my wand. He was about to … force me to do things I …'

Draco felt a sudden wave of rage rush through him. That Nathan prick had not succeeded, but he'd tried, and Draco despised him for it – an act reeking of disgrace. His fist clenched hard underneath the table.

'Anyway,' Granger continued, purposefully skipping the details, 'we were interrupted before he could actually do anything.'

'Interrupted?' Draco echoed, curious about how much she would disclose to the stranger she thought he was.

'Yes, someone stepped in and Stunned him,' she said, again not mentioning his name. As if she were able to read his mind, she added: 'I don't want to drag them into it. If they'd wanted the recognition, they'd have stayed.'

Draco leaned back in his chair. He was somewhat grateful for her discretion, although he couldn't pinpoint why exactly it calmed him so much. It felt as if she'd kept a promise on his behalf, without his asking for it – an act of loyalty he had not foreseen.

'And that Nathan,' he said, 'what happened to him?'

'He was taken into custody, but I highly doubt he will have to face severe consequences. I just hope they put him under a Restraining Charm – it's a shame performing them without consent from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement is considered illegal … Harry will see to it, I suppose. Although now that I think about it, Harry will have more important things to do right now.'

_Oh really?_

'Why, what's going on?'

Granger bit her lower lip, looking as though she'd let something slip she was supposed to keep a secret. Draco would have ridiculed her for it under different circumstances, but even a blind man would be able to see she was vulnerable. And when you're hurt, it's easy to lose your poise.

A part of him wanted to leave her in peace, what with having so much on her plate already. Another part – his curious, journalist self – simply had to pry and get her to talk. What was Potter up to now?

'Listen, Hermione,' he coaxed, 'if this has something to do with, you know …'

He paused momentously, as to delude her into thinking he had some sort of intelligence on whatever was keeping Potter so busy.

'So you know?'

'I've only heard rumours,' he feigned, hoping she would disclose something soon, lest he ran out of vague statements to make.

'Well, this time it happened here,' she said, voice lowered to a whisper. 'In Kent, as far as I know.'

What was it that had happened? Draco asked himself. Judging from her tone, it must have been serious. He decided to put on a face of concern and focus.

'Do you know where exactly Potter went?' he questioned.

Granger wagged her head, and Draco found he liked how her hair was so heavy that its swaying motion lagged behind the initial head-shaking.

'I just hope nobody got killed,' she commented quietly.

Killed? So this was serious indeed.

'Me too,' he said, quickly making the decision to drop by Potter's office right after their luncheon.

'I'm sorry Leon, this is all very depressing,' Granger said, levelling her eyes with his. The brown pools flickered with worry.

'But it's nonetheless important.' Draco tried to sound reassuring. 'And don't worry, I won't tell Potter that you accidentally gave me the hint about the attack.'

'You mean you're going to go see him?'

'I have to,' he said. 'The public have a right to know. And don't you think it'd be better if they heard it from someone other than Rita Skeeter?'

Granger snorted dismissively at the mention of that name.

'I suppose so, yes,' she shrugged. 'Now, how does this go?' She gesticulated between them. 'How do we proceed?'

Draco allowed the corners of his mouth to quirk up into a polite smile.

'I suggest we meet after your working hours next time,' he said. 'I think it'd be best if we focus on your achievements at the Ministry and the years immediately following the War, rather than your private life. Unless of course, you want to clear up a couple of things.' When Granger didn't interject, he continued: 'Personally, I don't think that'd be a wise move. It'd be like feeding them what they want, namely to cause indignation on your behalf.'

'I agree,' she nodded. 'I just want to clarify that what I do is in the best interest of both witches and wizards, and magical creatures and beings. It still amazes me how people care more about my love life'– she put it in air quotes –'than what actually matters. At least they don't know the whole truth about – you know – the ball … and I'd sooner it stay that way.'

She looked at him emphatically, and Draco lifted his hands. 'Don't worry, I will keep this to myself,' he promised. 'Besides, it says in our contract that you read over everything we intend to publish.'

'Good,' she said, taking a deep breath and momentarily averting her gaze. Draco caught himself shooting a quick glance at her rising chest.

'And I'm sorry,' she added, drawing his attention back to a reality in which he, Draco Malfoy, was definitely  _not_  giving Hermione Granger's curves the once-over. 'I don't want to accuse you of doing anything wrong, but you can surely understand that I have certain trust issues.'

'Of course,' Draco nodded. They locked eyes for a moment, but it passed by like an eternity to him.

'So what about this Friday?' he suggested. 'Would it suit you?'

Granger rummaged in her bag, eventually pulling out a small planner riddled with colourful sticky notes poking out between pages. Most likely unaware of the motion – let alone Draco's eyes following it – her tongue slipped out briefly to wet her lips while looking up the current week.

'Friday sounds fine,' she said at last, raising her gaze. 'You can come by my office at 5, if that's okay.'

'I'll be there,' he affirmed. 'Oh, and one more thing.' He removed his favourite tool of the trade from his trouser pocket and laid it on the table. 'I like using this for interviews. Would it bother you?'

'But that's a Muggle recording device!' Granger exclaimed. 'Colour me surprised, I wouldn't have expected that.'

'I'm full of surprises,' Draco smirked in spite of himself, causing Granger to blush.

_Wipe it off your face!_

He cleared his throat (Draco had done it so many times over the past hour one might think he'd caught a cold) and explained: 'Quick-Quotes Quills are unreliable, as you might know – and I don't have a Pensieve.'

It was a lie. There was a Pensieve at the Manor, but junior writer Leon Boswell would certainly not possess such a valuable magical object.

'It's completely fine by me,' Granger said. 'I'd much rather have my voice recorded than being misquoted by one of those terrible quills.'

The waiter reappeared and cleared the table, and Granger made a move to search her bag once more.

'Don't worry about it, I'll pay,' Draco said, reaching for his coin pouch. 'Since this is a business meeting, it's all on the  _Prophet_.'

'Alright, thank you,' she smiled, rising from her seat. 'Friday it is, then?'

'Friday it is.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Right after leaving the Crup and Jarvey Inn, Draco Apparated to the Ministry of Magic, in hopes of catching Potter. Since he didn't have an appointment with the Auror, he had to resort to waiting for him in the Atrium, sitting at the foot of the war memorial. Albus Dumbledore's name set in stone always made his insides squirm, yet Draco thought bearing its presence an act of atonement – which, he hoped, would one day ease his conscience.

It wasn't until the late afternoon that Potter finally made an appearance. Draco resisted the urge to sneer and say "Potter" – the way he once addressed his school-rival throughout years past.

'Mr Potter, a word?' he called after him as the Auror rushed by. Potter pivoted and stared at him irritably. He looked immensely stressed.

'What is it?'

'I'm Leon Boswell, Mr Potter,  _Daily Prophet_  reporter.'

Potter took an exhausted breath, rubbing his eyes.

'I've heard what happened today in Kent,' Draco continued, once more pretending to know more than he actually did. 'I think the public has a right to know. It's been kept a secret for too long.'

The former Gryffindor pinched the bridge of his nose, seemingly weighing his options.

'Fine, let's talk,' he said eventually. 'But no Quick-Quotes Quill. I'm allergic to those.'

Draco allowed himself a smirk, holding his dictating machine aloft.

'Don't worry, I'm a proper journalist.'

'Good,' Potter nodded. 'Follow me.'

Draco trailed him to the smaller hall beyond the Atrium and into one of the lifts.

'How come we've never met before, Mr Boswell?' asked Potter over the rattling noise of the ascending lift.

'I haven't been working for the  _Prophet_  for very long,' Draco replied. 'Besides, I spent half of my life in France.'

_Being civil to Granger and Potter on the same day; who would have thought?_

'But you managed to get hold of a piece of top secret information,' Potter remarked.

'I was lucky, I reckon,' said Draco. 'Overheard someone earlier.'

Potter lifted his eyebrows in suspicion but didn't dwell on it.

The lift came to a halt and Draco followed the Auror outside and past a sign that read "Level Two – Department of Magical Law Enforcement". Potter headed for a heavy oak door, leading them both into a large and open office.

'This way,' he said, meandering through the narrow aisles between the cubicles till they reached his. Draco could tell it was Potter's by the photographs on his desk, among others showing the Weasley girl, arm in arm with Potter himself, and Granger – standing next to his least favourite Weasley – waving happily into the camera. The sight of Granger and the weasel made him scowl.

'Everything alright?'

'Oh, yeah,' said Draco, feeling as if he'd been caught in the act.

_What the bloody hell is wrong with you? Remember who you are!_

'It's been a long day,' he added meekly.

'Tell me about it,' said Potter, dropping into his chair. He conjured another for Draco and gestured for him to sit.

'Listen,' he continued, 'I don't want to be rude, but I'll be up all night writing reports, so I'd appreciate it if we kept this short.'

'Yes, of course,' Draco complied, flipping the switch on his dictating machine and placing it on the desk. 'Now, what can you tell me about the attack?'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione had spent the remainder of the day perusing the files that had piled upon her desk over the holiday break and was ever so happy when she finally stepped foot in her flat in Wizarding London. No sooner had she taken off her cloak than a blurry, orange mass dashed towards her.

'Crookshanks!' she exclaimed happily. 'Hey there'– he circled her legs, purring –'yeah, I've missed you, too.'

She picked her pet up and stroked the patch of fur between his ears, walking mindlessly towards the kitchen.

'I bet you're hungry, aren't y-OUCH!'

Hermione tripped and bumped her shin against the corner of her coffee table, causing Crookshanks to jump out of her arms and scratch her in the process. He hadn't done it on purpose, of course, but the cut still stung; her leg all the while relentlessly throbbing.

The knitting needles which had caused her tumbling over lay innocently on the floor.

'Bloody bastards …' she grumbled, Levitating them into the wool basket with a swish and flick of her wand.

'Crookshanks?'

No reaction. Hermione sighed and went to her bathroom in order to apply a Healing Balm to the cut. It was in moments like these that she resented being alone. Not that a scratch and a bruise made for an unbearable affliction which required a helping hand – she could handle herself just fine.

Yet it would have been nice having someone to spend the evening with, occasionally asking after her; even if they knew she wasn't suffering that bad of an injury. Someone to hold, sitting on the sofa and watching telly, indulging in a glass of wine. Hagrid had been right – she could use some romance in her life.

That's why she'd tried her luck at the gala to begin with. Nathan had seemed so nice at first – how could she have possibly known he'd turn out to be a sodding creep? And Leon … he was clearly educated, good-looking, sweet; albeit a trifle smug – something which, she had to admit, she found rather enticing. And if she wasn't mistaken, he'd even been flirting with her.

Would it be safe to flirt back next time? Maybe even ask him out? She would be sure not to risk anything – as in being alone with him in some dark corridor. But a simple date couldn't hurt, could it?

Hermione wondered how it was possible that she'd never seen him before. He couldn't have been much older than her, but he definitely hadn't attended Hogwarts. Strange though, because he didn't have a foreign accent either. She decided she'd ask him next time they met.

After topping up Crookshanks's food bowl and making herself a sandwich, Hermione sat on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket and nursing a glass of pinot noir.

'There you are,' she greeted Crookshanks, who jumped on the couch and curled up into a ball atop of her lap. 'Sorry for giving you a start earlier.' He only looked at her expectantly and Hermione took up to ruffling his fur, triggering a contented purring sound.

_Knock, knock._

Hermione jerked her head up and noticed an owl sitting outside of her window, tapping its beak against the pane.

'Sorry Crooks,' she said apologetically, setting her glass aside and lifting the Half-Kneazel off her legs to go and open the window. Hermione snatched the  _Evening Prophet_  from the owl's beak and let five Knuts fall into the small purse tied to its leg.

'Hold on,' she said, reaching for a jar she kept on the windowsill and offering the bird an owl biscuit. The screech owl seemed pleased with its payment, spreading its wings and setting off into the dark.

Hermione shut the window and unfolded the paper; her eyes growing wider and wider the further she read.

_BREAKING NEWS:  
ONE DEAD IN DOVER MYSTERY ATTACK_

_BY L. BOSWELL_

_The Ministry of Magic attested earlier today that there has been an attack on a wizard and a Muggle woman in Dover, Kent._

_The wizard, whose identity has yet to be confirmed, as well as the body of the woman – presumably his wife – were found by Muggle tourists wandering the White Cliffs today morning. Prior to being Obliviated, the Muggles reported of a dense fog covering the coast for days._

_Although alive, it has proven impossible to speak to the wizard victim. A Reverse Spell conducted on his wand revealed that he had attempted a Patronus Charm, thus leading to the conclusion that at least one Dementor has been involved in the attack._

_"He has clearly been kissed," stated Harry Potter, Auror in charge and one of the first at the scene of the crime. "Luckily for us, his wand was still by his side, providing us with proof of his trying to defend himself and the woman."_

_Dementors do not kill, however, which is why the Aurors are convinced that one or more witches or wizards must have been complicit in the crime._

_"The woman's body showed clear signs of the Killing Curse," said Potter. "But we assume that she too had received the Dementor's Kiss before being murdered." The Auror also commented that the Muggle had most presumably been tortured as well, seeing as the body was "covered in bruises"._

_Potter further spoke of several other, similar incidents that have been occurring all over Europe, heretofore unbeknownst to the public. "We don't have much information, either. But we know that no wand has been found at any other crime scene, which leaves us wondering whether the culprits have left it there on purpose; as a warning perhaps."_

_Today's attack was the first recorded Dementor-related incident in almost four years. After the War, the former Azkaban guards have been driven away and replaced with volunteer Ministry workers and Aurors, and have not been sighted since – until now. The Ministry advises the magical population to remain vigilant and report any suspicious activity to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement immediately._

'This can't be happening …' mumbled Hermione absently, lowering her hands and staring vacantly at the flames crackling in her fireplace.

Her thoughts raced. One dead. Another one practically dead. Dementors … could they be responsible for the nationwide sweep of depression? It did make sense; Dementors would feed on post-traumatic symptoms, at the same time making them worse and worse, simply by closing in on the British shores.

Whoever was behind all this was using Dementors to weaken the population, magical and non-magical alike … and now they had also taken two souls. Perhaps the wizard victim would have been better off dead, too. It was beyond foul.

Hermione got up and put the fire out, slowly making her way towards her empty bedroom. She was overwhelmed by the terrifying news, and at the same time felt her heart flutter thinking about who had written the article. It was simply too much to handle at that moment.

Lying in bed, she promised herself she'd take up practising the Patronus Charm again. The last time she had attempted one, she'd failed miserably; the Dementors at the Ministry having quenched every last happy memory she'd had. Harry had saved them back then, but he wouldn't always be around. Hermione wasn't used to struggling with magic, and it was high time she learnt how to produce a Patronus outside of training conditions.

Thoughts circling around otters, handsome reporters, silent screams, and the blank face of a nameless, dead woman, sleep took over at last, and Hermione succumbed to her nightmares – as they would surely come.

 


	6. Rights and Wrongs

**Heads up for lemon slices!**

* * *

— CHAPTER SIX —

**_Rights and Wrongs_ **

'Come in,' he heard Granger's muffled voice through the door. Draco felt his legs wobble and cursed himself for it, realising he'd been anticipating their second meeting for the week far more than he'd like to admit.

When he entered, she beamed at him. She was sitting at her desk, all but her face hidden behind piled up files and stacks of paper.

'Hi Leon,' she greeted him warmly. 'Please, sit.'

'Hello, Hermione,' Draco replied huskily, pulling up the chair opposite her. Once seated, the paper piles blocked her from his view entirely.

'Oh, right,' she chortled. Draco watched as the stacks Levitated away from her desk and sorted themselves into cardboard slipcases sitting on a nearby shelf.

'Now,' she said, straightening herself up in her seat. She wore a mauve blouse, her grey robes draped over the back of her chair. 'I'd like to tell you that Harry was very pleased with your reporting.'

'Um … thanks,' said Draco. Praise from Potter, that was certainly unprecedented.

'And he didn't accuse me of slipping up either; so thank you,' she added.' Although, now that I think about it, he must have known since I did tell him you were interviewing me, so … oh well, it had to come out sooner or later anyway. It's a real threat, after all. Have you started practising yet?'

'Practising?' Draco echoed, then suddenly making the connection. 'Oh, you mean the Patronus Charm?'

Granger nodded, and Draco felt an irksome twitch to his stomach.

'Yeah, I have,' he lied.

He'd never been able to cast a Patronus, and not for lack of trying. He knew his becoming a Death Eater had rid him of that particular ability for good, the scarred flesh on his left arm an eternal reminder of that downfall.

'Excellent!' Granger smiled. 'I learnt the spell back in school, of course, but it's so much more difficult to produce a corporeal Patronus in a life-threatening situation.'

 _There's the_   _swot_   _I know_ , thought Draco and suppressed a smirk.

'Now that I think about it, how come I've never seen you at Hogwarts?' she added.

'I didn't go there,' Draco replied casually. 'I went to Beauxbatons.'

Granger's eyes widened in surprise.

'Really? How come? I thought only French witches and wizards were admitted there.'

'Well, as a matter of fact, I am French,' he said. 'Half-French to be exact.'

'Oh.' Her jaw dropped ever so slightly. 'That does explain a lot. Maybe you could help me with my French sometime!' she suggested excitedly. 'It's got a bit rusty over the years, you see.'

Draco chuckled at the thought of giving Hermione Granger – "brightest witch of her age" – private lessons. 'Sure, why not? But let's save that for later, shall we?'

'Of course,' she said, blushing. He seemed to have that effect on her quite frequently – or Leon did, at least.

'Are you all set?' he asked, his small voice recorder in hand. Granger nodded affirmatively, upon which Draco put the Muggle device on her desk, switching it on.

'Let's start at the very beginning,' he said. 'When and how did you develop an interest in the rights of magical creatures?'

'In my fourth year at Hogwarts, definitely,' she answered without hesitation. 'I was fifteen. I had just heard about house-elves working in the kitchens; enslaved, like all house-elves back then – no payment, no sick-leave, no holidays, no pension – nothing. Having grown up in the Muggle world, I was shocked beyond measure to learn that slavery was still an unresolved, let alone untackled problem in the wizarding world. So I decided I wanted to do something about it. I spent ages in the library, researching the history of elf-rights, and was disappointed, to say the least.'

Granger leaned back in her seat and crossed her legs.

'There was no organisation I could join, so my only option was to found one myself. I called it the "Society for the Promotion of Elfish Welfare" – S.P.E.W. for short.'

'Spew?' Draco snorted amusedly. 'Sorry,' he added quickly upon realising he'd been rude, but Granger only tilted her head back and laughed.

'Not you, too!' she tittered, leaning forward and playfully swatting a hand at his arm. Draco almost drew back at her touch, feeling his hair stand on end. It didn't help that she inadvertently offered him a better view of her neckline, what with bending over the table in order to reach him.

'What do you mean?' he asked hoarsely. 'Am I not the first person to say that?'

'Of course not,' she said, pursing her lips in a trying effort to stifle another laugh. 'I spent the better part of my teenage years with two lovable, but sometimes rather daft boys, what do you think?'

'You mean Harry Potter and Ron Weasley?'

'That's them,' she said endearingly. 'They would make fun of S.P.E.W.  _all_  the time. Thinking back now, I can hardly resent them for it. First of all, the name  _does_  sound ridiculous. I had something else in mind first, but it was way too long to fit on the badges I made … second of all, I practically forced them to join; not that we ever really achieved anything together. I suppose back then I thought at least Harry would be interested since he'd been the one who freed Dobby … oh well …' Her smile dropped.

'Who is Dobby?' Draco feigned ignorance at the mention of his old house-elf.

'Was,' Granger corrected, and Draco cringed inwardly. Dobby was dead? He knew the elf had been responsible for getting Potter and the others out of the Manor, but that he'd died sometime afterwards was news to him.

'He was the first free house-elf in history,' she said solemnly. 'Very brave, incredibly kind, ever loyal. He died saving us during the War – Bellatrix Lestrange killed him. His name was later engraved in the Ministry's memorial upon our insistence.'

Draco vaguely remembered his aunt throwing her knife towards the escapees while they were Disapparating … it must have hit Dobby at some point. He gulped. He couldn't pretend that he ever truly cared for the elf back when he'd served his family, but now his too was another soul warranting of Draco's guilt.

'I'm sorry to hear about your loss,' he managed. 'I take it you had close, personal relationships to elves, then?'

'Still have!' Granger's face lit back up. 'Harry actually employs a house-elf, his name is Kreacher. He once …  _belonged_  – ugh, I hate to say it like that – to the Black family. And seeing as Sirius bequeathed his house to Harry – he was his godfather, you see – long story … where was I?'

'Kreacher?'

'Right,' she said. 'Kreacher was bound to serve the owner of 12 Grimmauld Place, and when Sirius died, that meant Harry. He was extremely reluctant at first, what with being fiercely loyal to the Blacks and their pure-blood idealism – but he came to like working for Harry. He even accepted me later on, despite having called me "Mudblood" on multiple occasions throughout the years.'

Draco couldn't help but scrunch up his nose in disgust, surprised that Granger kept a straight face while voicing the slur.

'He truly said that to you?' he asked, sounding more protective than he'd intended.

'Yes, but he didn't mean it, you know,' she explained. 'He simply parroted what he'd picked up from his former  _masters_.'

'So did Potter free him then?'

'No, I'm afraid not,' she sighed. 'I tried to convince Kreacher many a time, but he won't listen to reason; he's very old after all. At least I managed to find him a more suitable sleeping place, which he accepted. He used to live in a cupboard, you see. Very filthy place. We gave him Sirius's mother's old bedroom instead, where Buckbeak would –'

'Buckbeak?' Draco blurted out, a tad too much shock in his voice. He cleared his throat. 'Sorry, who's Buckbeak?'

Granger squinted her eyes at him for a second, then explained: 'A Hippogriff, once sentenced to death, because of an accident at school. He was accused of attacking a student in my year, but he was provoked, you see … it wasn't Buckbeak's fault. Besides, the injury induced was collateral at best.'

 _Collateral at best?_  Draco stifled a comment about just  _how_  much it  _had_  hurt … though he had to admit, he'd milked his affliction far longer than necessary.

'The cruel thing is, Leon,' Granger continued, 'it wasn't even  _about_  Buckbeak! It was a ploy to get our teacher sacked – at the expense of a beautiful, majestic, innocent life. A heinous scheme, if you ask me. Fortunately, Harry and I managed to save him last minute.'

Draco shifted uncomfortably in his seat – he really needn't be reminded of the inappropriateness of his past behaviour. At least the Hippogriff had made it out alive, thus not adding another notch of responsibility to his internal death tally.

'You've started showing interest in magical creatures before your fourth year, then,' he said. 'You protected an innocent being from being murdered. I'd call that extremely successful activism if you ask me.'

'Well, when you put it like that …' She scratched her cheek. 'But I suppose you're right. I even helped Hagrid with writing Buckbeak's appeal … hang on – I didn't say anything about it happening before fourth year.'

 _Bollocks_.

'Oh, I … I just assumed.'

 _Get your sodding shit together, or_   _this'll_   _blow up in your face!_

'At Beauxbatons, we study Hippogriffs and Pegasus in our second year, you see,' he explained lamely. 'I forget about other schools sometimes.'

'I see,' she said, misconceived comprehension dawning on her face. 'It makes sense – the difference in the curriculum, I mean. You even breed these winged palominos, right?'

Draco nodded, relieved she had found a shred of logic within his feeble excuse.

'Now,' he said, eager to steer away from the subject. 'Let's talk about that some other time. Can you tell me more about the goals you've had for S.P.E.W.?'

'Certainly,' said Granger with a smile on her lips. 'Firstly, I wanted the working conditions to be improved and the elves to get paid. I have managed in quite a few cases now. Surprisingly, it is often the elves themselves who struggle to accept a life outside slavery, like Kreacher. The  _owners_  are less reluctant. Especially since the standard wage is still very low – something I'd like to change, too.'

'And what is it that you're currently working on?'

'I have recently delved into magical law, as you may have picked up from that atrocious Skeeter article.' She wrinkled her nose. 'As for the elves, I'd like to establish a law that allows them use of a wand. This turns out to be rather difficult, but I am anything if not patient.'

Granger flashed him a broad smile which revealed a dimple on her right cheek; Draco hoped she wouldn't notice his quickening pulse.

'What I've managed to achieve, however, is introducing an elf representative to our Department,' she said proudly. 'Her name is Topsy. She's a free elf and officially registered as a Ministry employee. She doesn't have her own place, but she has a small room in the Magical Maintenance Department – we couldn't convince her to give up on cleaning entirely. She claims it's just what she likes. So basically she's performing maintenance tasks and comes up here whenever her attendance is required.'

'That is truly impressive, Hermione,' said Draco, meaning it. 'I suppose that's the reason why you turned down the job offer from the Department of Magical Law Enforcement back in '98? Your passion for house-elf rights?'

'You've done your research,' she observed. 'And yes, I think I am much more of a useful addition to this Department than to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.'

'Even though the latter is clearly the more prestigious of the two.'

'Perhaps,' she shrugged, 'but I don't care about prestige, honestly. There are much more important things; equality, for instance, and a dignified life for everyone.'

Draco found it fascinating to learn about her achievements, her disposition. She was a visionary – something he should have recognised sooner but had been too stubborn to admit. She had beat him down into second-best every year at Hogwarts, yet Draco had always credited that to nothing more than memory skills and obnoxiously hard work. Talking to her now made it perfectly clear that she was capable of so much more – Granger truly was brilliant.

She kept discussing house-elves, Draco quickly making the decision to open up the series with that topic, especially seeing how much it apparently meant to her. She was eternally passionate about the little creatures, her face flushing gleefully while telling him all about her ideas for elf housing and retirement.

'I think I've more than enough to work with for now,' said Draco eventually, after paying close attention to an elaborate proposal on house-elf education. 'Thank you. This was quite enlightening.'

'You think?' she said incredulously. 'Most people are bored with the subject, to be honest.'

'Well, I found it educational. Besides, you have very strong arguments, and you clearly think things through, instead of just throwing out poorly founded demands.'

'You're one of very few, then,' she mumbled. 'Outside of this Department, I mean.'

'Then I'll make sure to reach a broad audience who are just as interested as I.'

'Do you think people will even care about house-elf rights right now?' she asked with little confidence in her voice. 'What with the recent attack, I mean.'

Draco took a deep breath.

'Listen, Hermione,' he said, leaning forward. Speaking her name became easier the more he shed his misconception of her being Granger, the insufferable know-it-all, and embraced the image of Hermione, the ingenious – and stunning – witch. 'The attack was tragic, and we can't ignore it. But that's beyond the point. We can't let it change our lives, that's exactly what these bastards want. Life goes on, with or without the terror, and that's why your story matters; maybe now more than ever.'

'You're right,' she nodded, and Draco reached for the dictating machine, ready to take his leave.

'So … I was wondering,' said Granger, fidgeting with her hands. 'Would you like to go out for a drink, maybe?'

_What?_

'Um …' uttered Draco dumbfoundedly. Judging from the way she behaved around him he should have expected as much, yet that didn't make reacting to it any easier. A date? With Hermione Granger?

'I understand if you don't want to,' she blurted, frowning.

'No, that's not it –'

'But you just said it yourself; we can't let all of this affect our lives. Besides, we could use a couple of happy memories, don't you think?'

Draco was still at a loss for words, his chest feeling oddly constricted.

'A drink would be nice,' he said, a voice that was not his own escaping his lips before he'd even had time to reconsider.

'Brilliant,' Granger chirped, her eyes twinkling. 'Do you have any plans now?'

'Now?' he echoed. 'No, I … I don't.'

She giggled. Was she laughing at him?

'There's a pub I like, but it's in Muggle London. Would you be up for that?'

Draco swallowed thickly. It wasn't the prospect of venturing into the Muggle world that made him jittery; she had stood up, and he couldn't help but eye her curves, neatly hugged by anthracite slacks.

'Sure,' he managed. 'I don't have any Muggle money, though.'

'It's alright,' she said, slicing the air with her hand. 'You paid last time. Tonight's on me.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

They didn't speak much on their way out of the Ministry and Hermione managed to not burst into giggles only through great effort. She could tell he was nervous, and it excited her beyond reason. Having that sort of effect on somebody felt self-assuring – especially someone as well-mannered, witty, and fit as Leon. The newly learnt fact that he was half-French only added to his attractiveness.

 _Merlin are you shallow_ , chimed a voice in the back of her head – but who could blame her?

'This way,' she pointed left once they stepped outside of the spiked black railings bordering the Ministry's entrance disguised as a public lavatory. To her surprise, he offered out his elbow and Hermione snaked an arm through his. Heat flushed her face again, and she stared sheepishly at her shoes, hoping he wouldn't be able to sense the pounding of her heartbeat.

So what if he did? Why should she feel ashamed? He'd been at a loss for words several times during the interview – sometimes stuttering even – and though it might just be wishful thinking, she couldn't help but read into some sort of infatuation from his behaviour, albeit at an early stage.

'We might want to change,' said Leon after a few minutes of strolling down the street, the crisp cold causing his words to come out in white puffs.

'Oh, right,' she said, realising they were both clad in wizard robes. She carefully checked their surroundings for any Muggle onlookers, which was hardly necessary, seeing as the sun had long since disappeared behind London's rooftops.

They drew their wands simultaneously and transfigured their robes into Muggle clothing. Leon looked fantastic in his dark blue slacks, white shirt, and woollen waistcoat, now complete with a navy Monty.

'It's not the most frequented pub, but it's lovely, and they make the best brandy sour in all of London – at least as far as I'm concerned,' said Hermione while entering the location, Leon holding the door open for her. Not that Hermione expected such gentlemanly demeanour, but it didn't mean she appreciated it any less.

'Brandy sour, you say?' asked Leon once they were seated at a heavy wooden table underneath the vaulted, brickstone ceiling.

'Hm, hm,' she hummed affirmatively, browsing the menu. 'It's really good.'

'Is it your favourite drink?'

'I haven't thought about it, really, but I suppose so, yes,' she replied. 'I wouldn't say no to wine punch either. What about you?'

'Nothing beats a good old Ogden's,' said Leon, grinning. 'But I'll take you up on that brandy.'

The drink truly was delicious; sweet and sour, rounded out by the smokey flavour of the liquor.  _I wonder what Leon tastes like_  – Hermione took another sip from her glass, surprised and a bit abashed by her own daring thought.

They had also ordered crumpets and butter on the side – after all, she wasn't here to get drunk.

'May I ask your age?' she said, reaching for the bread basket. Leon must have had the same idea, seeing as his hand accidentally touched hers instead of the crumpet below. He didn't move, his warm fingers gently brushing against the back of her hand. Hermione felt her spine tingle.

'I'm 24,' he answered, his hand still on top of hers, lingering for a few more seconds before drawing back so that Hermione could help herself to the bread.

She nibbled at the crumpet, thinking: Was it the alcohol making her cheeks feel hot and flustered or was it his touch? Probably both. The silence between them grew thick with awkwardness – outside of a professional setting, she found it was much more difficult to talk.

'I'm 22,' said Hermione after a while.

'I know,' Leon chuckled. 'I've done my research, remember?'

'Right, I should've known.' Hermione calculated in her head. 'Being 24, you must have stayed at Hogwarts for the Triwizard Tournament. If you were a candidate, at least.'

'I was,' he confirmed, taking another sip of his drink. 'Although I have to admit, the Tournament itself was a bit boring to watch, apart from the first task.'

'I've seen less even,' she said. 'I was down at the bottom of the lake, unconscious.'

'Now that you're mentioning it … Krum rescued you, didn't he?'

Hermione nodded.

'The second task was the worst, honestly,' said Leon, and Hermione was glad he didn't enquire about her and Viktor any further. 'We were just sitting in the cold for over an hour, seeing less than nothing.'

'I can imagine,' she said, purposefully avoiding the subject of the final task. She didn't want to spoil the mood. 'You must have known Fleur then, what with being in her year and all.'

'Briefly,' he replied. 'Why do you ask?'

'She's married to a friend of mine now,' she smiled. 'Bill Weasley, one of Ron's brothers. They even have a baby girl, Victoire.'

'Ah,' he said. 'That's good news.'

'I'll make sure to say hello next time I see them,' Hermione added excitedly, but Leon's brows only knitted together at that.

'I'm not sure that'd be a good idea,' he said, and Hermione's thoughts began to race. Why? Did they have a history together? Had they been a couple once?

_Even if they had, it's none of your business!_

'I wasn't part of her circle, you see,' he explained, and Hermione let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. 'She couldn't be bothered with me, and probably won't even remember who I am.'

'How can someone possibly not remember  _you_?' she blurted, blushing instantly.

'I take that as a compliment,' he said, smirking, very sure of himself.

Hermione's heart skipped a beat at his haughty – but very handsomely so – expression. It seemed uncannily familiar, but she accounted that to her her building feelings of trust. She liked him. And it was happening  _way_  too fast. Hadn't she only recently learnt a harsh lesson about falling for people and trusting them too quickly?

 _I'm being such an idiot_ , she scolded herself, realising too late that she had thought out loud.

'Why would you say that?' he queried, his voice layered with concern. Hermione's face turned scarlet.

'Um …' She began working her lip.

'You're not an idiot, Hermione,' he said seriously before she had a chance to explain herself. 'In fact, you're probably one of the most brilliant people I've met.'

 _Talk about making it worse._  She grabbed her glass and downed the remaining contents all at once, the alcohol's warmth spreading in her stomach.

'Sorry, I'm not used to this,' she said eventually. 'Most men find me intimidating, you see. They put me on a pedestal of expectations I can't possibly fulfil, thinking me a heroine without fail. And once they get to know me, I'm suddenly a boring swot … well, I know I can be pushy, but that's not what makes up my entire personality.'

'I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable,' said Leon apologetically.

'That's the thing; you don't do any of that. You just treat me … unbiased. The things you say, they sound like you actually mean them.'

'That's because I do,' he confirmed. 'Care for another drink?'

Relieved about the sudden opportunity to drop the subject, Hermione accepted, and Leon stood, walking over to the bar. What was she doing? She was talking complete and utter nonsense, let alone pouring her heart out to a bloke she'd met only a few days ago. She had better regain her composure, lest she end up in his arms on the first night.

 _Not that you'd complain_.

Hermione wished she could silence that bloody, annoying voice in her head sometimes – perhaps because she knew it was right.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Two rounds of drinks later, Draco decided he'd had enough booze. He didn't care for getting pissed, seeing as it would make deceiving Granger only that much harder. She, however, appeared to be quite buzzed already, impairing her intellectual capacity and making it less likely for her to detect his lies.

He'd been rather surprised when she'd called him unbiased earlier. If she knew it was him, she would have never used that particular adjective, Draco was sure of it. "Malfoy" and "unbiased" certainly made for an unprecedented word pair. Maybe that's why hearing her praise lifted his spirits all the more; it felt like an affirmation of his newly developed ways of thinking and professionalism.

'Alright, let's play a game, shall we?' suggested Granger. With cheeks flushed from brandy and brazen speech, her self-conscious demeanour had soon vanished entirely. She looked at him through long dark lashes, leaning forward on her arms so that Draco could have counted each and every freckle on her nose if he'd wanted to.

'I say something, and you'll give me the first word that pops to mind, okay?'

'Alright,' smirked Draco, waiting for her to begin.

'Book.' – 'Tea.' – 'Apple.' – 'Tart.'

'If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're hungry,' she chuckled, and Draco's smirk grew even wider.

'Perhaps I am,' he drawled and – in spite of himself – winked at her.

Granger's jaw dropped. 'How am I supposed to interpret that?' she accused playfully.

'Don't read anything into it,' said Draco. 'It's my turn: Ginger.'

'Cat.' – 'Dog.' – 'Omen.'

'Omen?' repeated Draco. 'Don't tell me you believe in fate and all that shite!'

'Of course I don't, Leon,' she replied, feigning offence. 'I'm not  _thick_.'

'What do you believe in then?' he asked, sincerely curious.

'Books,' she answered instantaneously. 'Imagination. Knowledge. And being the architect of my own fortune.'

'Ten points to Gryffindor,' he said, upon which Granger burst into laughter.

'What's so funny?'

'I don't know,' she giggled. 'You said it with such a straight face! "Ten points to Gryffindor",' she mocked in a deep voice.

'Maybe we should call it a night,' contemplated Draco. A glimpse at the clock hanging on the opposite wall settled the matter; it was time they leave lest he wanted to change back in front of her. He quickly snagged Granger's tumbler before she could down the rest of her drink.

She pouted, which made her lips look temptingly kissable; Draco resisted the urge to snog her right then and there.

'You have to pay, remember?' he reminded her, all the while forcing himself to look anywhere but Granger's mouth.

'Oh, right,' she said and began to rummage in her bag.

When the waiter presented her with the bill, she almost gave him a handful of Galleons instead of one of those Muggle banknotes, and Draco had to snatch her purse to pay on her behalf.

'Can you Apparate?' he enquired once they had stepped out of the pub and into the night.

'Hm … yes?' She looked up at him with big brown eyes, batting her lashes.

'Why am I not convinced?' he chuckled. 'Come on. I'll walk you home.'

Draco offered her his arm once more, and Granger took it with much more confidence than the first time, leaning into him, her curls tickling his cheeks. They walked all the way to the Leaky Cauldron (which was quite crowded on a Friday night) and entered Wizarding London through the brick wall behind the pub.

She manoeuvred him away from the main street and into one of the smaller side alleys, eventually coming to a halt in front of a yellow house with white shutters.

'This is me,' she said.

'Is it all yours?' Draco asked.

'Course not,' she answered, rolling her eyes at him. 'Why would I need that much space? I live in the upper flat. With Crookshanks.'

Tipsy as she was and thus not considering a Summoning Spell, she let go of his arm to search for her keys, and Draco watched her undisturbedly. Would she expect him to kiss her goodnight? Not that he'd mind – but he couldn't shake off the memory of her at the Ministry, being kissed without her consent. She might agree to snog Leon – but not him. And underneath the cover, it was still Draco she'd be kissing. How could he do that to her after what he'd witnessed at the gala? It'd be so wrong. And so tempting.

'Leon?' she whispered, now standing dangerously close to him.

'You'd better go inside,' he said hoarsely. 'You're shaking.'

'Keep me warm then.'

Granger drew even closer (if that was physically possible) and Draco made a step backwards, almost causing her to tumble over. Before she had the chance to complain, he reached for her hand and brushed his lips over her knuckles.

'Good night, Granger.'

'Good night,' she echoed, looking puzzled. No sooner had he begun to walk into the opposite direction than she called after him: 'Why'd you call me "Granger"?'

Draco pivoted, but kept walking backwards, hands in his pockets.

'I think it suits you,' he smirked, hoping she wouldn't heed his slip-up any further significance. 'Now go get some sleep. I'll Owl you.'

Draco turned back around and made towards his own flat, leaving Granger alone with her confusion.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco had just entered his home when he felt a familiar tingle, indicating his retransformation from the potion's waning effects. Coming inside from the cold and into the warmth made him feel a bit dizzy – he'd been drinking, too, after all; even if he tolerated alcohol far better than Granger had.

He took off the duffel coat, which he'd decided to keep, and emptied its pockets. Clutching the handheld recorder, he made his way towards his study. He didn't feel tired in the least, so why not get some work done? At least that's what he told himself when he dipped his quill into the inkwell and flicked the device's switch, ready to transcribe her interview.

"Spew?" he heard himself say, followed by a sheepish "Sorry" and Granger's enticing laugh. Draco remembered vividly how she had bent over the table, allowing his imagination to run wild with that seemingly innocent memory. In reality, he hadn't seen much of anything, but his buzzed mind now presented him with an image of Granger's blouse, unbuttoned, her perky breasts pressed against the desk.

He recalled her hand touching him briefly, but this time around, it wandered up to his chest – and it really was  _his_  skin, not Leon's, she traced with her finger. Then he heard Granger let out an almost inaudible sigh and Draco felt his dick twitch in response to her breathy exhale.

_What in Salazar's name is happening?_

It was just her voice – Granger's voice, mind you!

 _The weasel touched her first_ , he forced himself to think, but it didn't help the budding throb beneath his lower abdomen. It only spurred him into feeling challenged.

 _Imagine Weasley's face once you tell him you've shagged her … tell him how she's moaned your name_  …

Yet it wasn't even his name she'd be moaning – even if, by any chance, they'd end up shagging. It was Leon she'd asked on a date, not him. No, never would she have wanted to go out with  _him_. Draco's jaw clenched in frustration, his hardness still prodding relentlessly against the fabric of his trousers.

Ink was dripping from the tip of the peacock quill he still had poised in place, an inch above the desk, ruining the parchment beneath it with big, blue stains.

 _Fuck this_.

He tossed the quill aside and unbuttoned his trousers, reaching into his pants to settle the growing ache now overtaking his judgements.

Not envisioning Granger's hand running up and down his shaft bordered on impossible. He couldn't help but imagine that it was her touch there instead of his. Her eyes, flashing up at his with equal amounts of lust as she moved; her voice, gasping out his given name as though begging for more. Begging for him.

Whenever Draco commanded himself to think about something else, someone else,  _anything_  else, his thoughts slipped back to the former Gryffindor immediately. After a few tries, he gave up entirely. His heart beat quickened against his ribcage as his hand pumped his cock, slowing down for increased intensity only to pick up speed once more.

The recorder kept running and her voice filled the room, but it wasn't her words which he listened to. Draco closed his eyes, picturing her. Blouse. Buttons. Lips. Those lips, craving for his touch. Those lips, wrapping themselves around his tip, her tongue darting out, teasing, drawing circles before taking him into her mouth entirely …

That was it; it was too much. The mental image of Granger's lips around his cock. The  _pop_  of her mouth as she drew back to palm his slick length beneath her fingertips; the glint in her eyes when she finally straddled his lap, throwing her head back and sighing that sultry whimper as she filled herself with him. Not Leon.  _Him_.

_"Draco ..."_

'Fuck,' he groaned, her fantasy shoving him over the edge. Every inch of his body shuddered, tingles running up and down as his release spilt, his cock pulsating in waves of pleasure until the warmth finally dissipated.

Draco was panting. He leaned back in his chair for a few more lungfuls of air before reaching for his wand and Vanishing the mess. He could try and talk himself out of it all he wanted, but there was no denying it anymore: he was completely and thoroughly fucked.


	7. Double Trouble

— CHAPTER SEVEN —

**_Double Trouble_ **

_This is ridiculous_ , thought Draco, fist held aloft and about to rap his knuckles against the door before him. _I must be mental_.

He found himself in front of Granger's office once more – yet not disguised as the reporter she believed she'd begun to go out with. He was Draco. Draco Malfoy, ex-Death Eater and bully from her schooldays, about to request admission into Hermione Granger's office.

_Definitely mental._

Bracing himself, he knocked twice. He heard a chair being shoved back and then footsteps shuffling towards the door, which opened a crack moments later to reveal a pair of brown eyes peeping through.

'I wasn't expecting any –  _Malfoy_?'

'Hey Granger,' he said lamely, meeting her widened gaze, lashes fluttering as if she didn't quite believe what she was seeing.

'Um … well … hi?' she muttered, her brow now creasing in confusion. 'Sorry, this is a bit unexpected.'

She swung the door open, and Draco stole a glimpse at her outfit. She was wearing a black pencil skirt and an emerald cashmere jumper – out of all colours she could have picked, she had to sport Slytherin green.

 _More for you to think about, then_ , mocked the voice in the back of his head. Draco pretended not to hear it.

'Do you have a minute?' he asked, and Granger nodded, still not averting her gaze. She stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. Trying not to appear familiar with the surroundings of her office, he looked around, scanning the room for her desk. She'd cleaned it, apparently – the mess he'd encountered the week before was nowhere to be seen.

In its place she had set up several picture frames, their backs to Draco, keeping him from properly inspecting the photographs they held. He bet his entire family wealth on photos of Potter and Weasley inhabiting the frames; probably more showing off further groups of friends and perhaps her Muggle family.

_Gryffindors and their soppy photographs._

'Why don't you take a seat?' Granger offered, her voice strangely stiff. He could tell she was uncomfortable (or at least puzzled) and somewhat overtaxed with his sudden appearance. Draco had to remind himself that only  _he_  had got used to her company by now, not vice versa. Maybe even a tad more than just "used to", as a matter of fact.

Granger walked around her desk, and Draco stole a glance at her backside. Yes, that skirt would definitely cut its way into his subconscious. It was astounding how she managed to be that appealing just by  _being_ there; moving naturally, sometimes clumsily even, and not in the least bit trying to be seductive.

'I have a proposal to make,' said Draco once he had sat down. 'I read that article about you yesterday; quite eye-opening, I must say.'

Granger raised her eyebrows but didn't speak.

'As you might know, I am running my family's business these days,' he continued, toying lazily with a paperweight he had just picked up from her desk. 'Partly, we make investments, endorsing over gold to entrepreneurs and –'

'I'm familiar with the concept of investment, Malfoy,' said Granger hotly and snagged the paperweight out of his hand, setting it back onto the table with exceptional vigour.

Draco chose to ignore her and carried on, 'As I was saying, we make investments for our own benefit. However, we also occasionally make donations –'

'How's that not for your own benefit?' she interjected again. 'Donations … more like bribes.'

Draco took a deep breath, trying to shake off the building irritation. How bloody terrific it'd be to be able to shut her up … if he could just pin her to the desk …

_Pull yourself together!_

'Look, Granger, I'm not denying what my father has or has not done in the past,' he said calmly, pinching the bridge of his nose. 'I'm simply trying to do what's best for both my family and the society we live in.'

Draco shot her an expectant look, waiting for her to speak up. When she remained silent, he continued: 'Your work has caught my attention, which is why I'm considering to support it. The progress you've made in the establishment of house-elf rights is a notable achievement, but – if I recall correctly – you haven't nearly completed all of your objectives in that field yet. Magical law can be rather nasty to meddle with, and it requires more than just hard work and dedication if you wish to make significant changes.'

'Are you saying I'm to slip Galleons into some High Warlock's pocket?' she asked. 'Because that's not going to happen. Everything I do, I do with integrity and sincerity and –'

'That's not what I was suggesting,' Draco cut her off, stifling a smirk at her sudden clamour – he'd come to find her rants rather charming, after all. 'Money is not only meant for bribery, Granger, despite the preconception you seem to have about me. Money can, however, pay for facilities, research material, and staffing.'

Granger squinted her eyes at him, seemingly weighing her answer.

'Why would  _you_  want to help  _me_?' she finally asked, and Draco could sense she wasn't messing with him. She genuinely didn't know.

'Because,' he said, 'I'm sure you'd agree with me when I say I've made enough bad choices in the past. Besides, your opinion on house-elves has piqued my interest.'

'You?  _House-elf rights_?' Granger queried incredulously, leaning forward, her eyebrows almost fading into her hairline.

'Have I not spoken clearly?' he sneered, very aware that teasing her was counterproductive to his case, yet it was immensely hard to resist; riling Granger up made her cheeks flush, and Draco had become quite accustomed to that particular shade of pink on her face. If she wouldn't blush in his presence for the reasons she did in front of "Leon", he'd have to resort to other means.

Granger bored her eyes into his, opening her mouth as though she were about to snap at him again, but then only huffed and slumped back into her chair, crossing her arms.

'I figured you might not believe me,' said Draco, pulling out a small piece of parchment from his robes and tapping it with his wand, the document enlarging upon impact. 'Here's the draft contract'– he shoved it towards her –'with all the details, for your appraisal – keep it. It's all there. No catch, no strings attached … well … other than crediting the Malfoy business for sponsoring the cause, but seeing as you're all too familiar with the concept of such matters – you would've already known that. Now all you have to do is accept, and you'll begin receiving monthly contributions towards your research and endeavours.'

'Um …' she uttered dumbfoundedly, and Draco couldn't withstand the smirk this time. He had rendered Granger speechless.

'Think about it, alright?' he said, rising from his seat. 'Let me know whatever your decision may be. Good day, Granger.'

He tilted his head forward ever so slightly, turned on his heels and walked back to the door.

'Malfoy?'

Her voice was lowered to a whisper; he'd almost missed it.

'Yes?'

Draco let go of the doorknob and turned to face her. She had stood up.

'I never got to thank you for … you know …' she was chewing her lower lip, and Draco forced himself to look anywhere but.

'Don't mention it,' he said nonchalantly, despite his quickening pulse. He was eager to leave; he'd already noticed that his own body seemed to respond to Granger even more than the Muggle facade he typically donned in her presence.

'No, this is important, it matters to me – if you hadn't stepped in …' she trailed off, evidently struggling to find words. 'Who knows what would've happened?'

'Anyone would have done the same.'

'Well, no offence, but … you don't really count as  _anyone_. So, regardless – thank you … Draco.'

His eyebrows shot up, and he bit the inside of his cheeks. Hearing Granger reference his given name was definitely a first – outside of his fantasies at least. He really needed to exit her office before he blurted out something he'd inevitably come to regret.

Unsure of what to respond, Draco gave her a curt nod and left, shutting the door behind him.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione let out a sharp breath as soon as the door had clicked shut. What exactly had just happened? Had she been daydreaming? Not that her dreams would revolve around Malfoy, yet her encounter with the ex-Slytherin had seemed far too surreal to have actually taken place.

Why in Hufflepuff's name would  _Draco Malfoy_ , out of all people, want to sponsor her research and activism on house-elf rights? She snorted, sitting back down and staring holes in the contract lying before her. Hermione hesitated for a while, curiosity soon getting the better of her, before she eventually reached for the document and perused its contents. Everything seemed to be in order. He really was being serious. Who would have thought: Draco Malfoy, unlikely friend to house-elves and their Muggle-born advocate.

Hermione placed the drafted contract atop her "to-do" pile and picked up the letter she had been about to read right before Malfoy's surprise visit. She recognised the handwriting instantly, her smile widening as she soaked up the words:

_My dearest Hermione, Brightest of them all_

_(I lost a bet, alright?)_

_It's been ages since we've spent time together! Properly, that is. Just you, Luna, and me. What do you say, this Friday maybe? My place. I will see to it that Harry is either out or otherwise occupied. I read that article about you, and I want to know_ _ everything _ _!_

_Owl me back, will you?_

_Ginny_

_PS: Witches' night has never been nor will ever be optional. Should you have prior engagements, tell them they will suffer my eternal wrath lest they try and keep you from having a splendid time with your amazing, completely sane, and ever so humble friends. And by wrath, I mean hitting them in the face with a Bludger. I hear that hurts._

_PPS: Her PS is longer than the actual letter – Harry_

_PPPS: Harry James Ignoramus Poophead Potter! How dare you? This is confidential! Can you believe that guy? Dies saving the world_ _ once _ _and now he thinks he can do everything!_

Hermione couldn't help but grin broadly at her friends' banter; they really were perfect for each other. She sighed wistfully and put the letter back beside her newly purchased plane ticket to Paris – she would accompany her parents on a trip soon. Although she had suggested they use a Portkey, her parents had insisted on travelling the Muggle way. Hermione didn't particularly enjoy flying, neither on an aeroplane nor a broomstick; however, a weekend in France would definitely be worth the trouble.

Paris in mind, her thoughts jumped to a particular (half) Frenchman and Hermione allowed herself a tiny squeal of joy before scribbling an answer for Ginny. As much as she'd like to spend every night with Leon (which she knew wasn't going to happen), she'd never miss an opportunity to partake in quality time with her friends either. Besides, she hadn't heard from Luna in a while now and was excited to see her again.

Yes, a night with her two best girlfriends was precisely what she needed. Hermione felt like her world had been turned upside down ever since she'd met Leon. If only he weren't so frustratingly unreadable!

One moment he'd be all flirty and charming, the next mysterious and reserved. Their second date last Sunday had left Hermione in a shambles once again. Leon had asked her to meet for coffee and – while they were at it – read over the final draft of his article. Whereas the date itself had been lovely, he'd became somewhat aloof towards the end, eventually departing without any affectionate gesture whatsoever.

Hermione tried to tell herself that his shifts in demeanour didn't mean anything – they had only been out twice, after all. And Rome hadn't been built in a day, either. But it unnerved her all the same, and she hoped talking it out with her friends would help her feel more confident about the entire situation.

Her gaze wandered back over to the document Malfoy had handed her, Hermione's thoughts following shortly after. She couldn't help but acknowledge that he had grown into his looks, and quite remarkably so.

He'd always been annoyingly handsome, of course, and – on top of that – all too aware of his aristocratic, good looks. Only, Hermione had never been able to appreciate that particular aspect of him, considering how exceedingly awful Malfoy had been to her at school; the only upside of her previous encounters with the Slytherin being the irony of his curse having presented her with the opportunity to have her teeth resized.

Now, however, Hermione had to grant him the favour of viewing him in a new light. Between coming to her rescue at the gala and offering to support a cause which clearly went against his upbringing in every way thinkable, Malfoy had somehow managed to grow into a decent person – no easy feat considering his past, paved with bad choices and dubious moral practices. He'd even admitted as much himself.

Hermione scolded herself a little for snapping at him so much. Of course, Malfoy wasn't bribing anyone anymore; she knew that. He wasn't his father. Perhaps it was the haughty air about him which had aggravated her, what with his swaggering into her office like he owned the place and brazenly playing with her belongings.

Hermione felt a smirk tug at the corners of her mouth. Regardless the obvious shift in his political and social disposition, Malfoy was still the arrogant prat she knew from school. It felt oddly reassuring.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

For the next couple of days, Draco popped in and out of the Ministry far more often than would have been necessary. He voluntarily made appointments with self-declared important people, claiming he wished to discuss financial matters and inviting them to lunch in hopes to maintain "business relationships". These kinds of meetings were the part of his duties he always detested the most and usually tried to avoid as much as possible; however, they'd become the perfect pretext for his mission of late.

Draco still didn't enjoy any of these obligations in the slightest, yet lingering at the Ministry came with the slim chance of running into Granger again. A quiet, circumspect voice buried deep beneath his cynicism and common sense sparked a flicker of hope that if he only talked to her often enough, he would ultimately muster the courage to tell her the truth; or play havoc and – although even more unlikely – trigger off some sort of affection in Granger.

It was a foolish endeavour, he knew. Even if one day he'd be able to be honest with her, he still couldn't expect her to take it lightly. Granger could be rather feisty – a harsh lesson he'd learnt first hand in his third year. She was certainly able to throw one hell of a punch.

'Malfoy! Wait up!'

Granger's voice, shrill from shouting, made Draco turn on the spot. The one witch he would have never thought would occupy his thoughts on a more than regular basis was running up to him now, across the dark wood floor of the Atrium, brown curls bobbing up and down with every step.

He had spotted her several times over the course of the week, and while he was certain she had noticed his presence on at least two occasions, she hadn't addressed him until now.

'Yes?' he asked, quirking an eyebrow at her as soon as she came to a halt in front of him.

'I – phew,' she puffed, 'I wanted to give you this.'

She drew an envelope out of the bag she had clutched to her chest, and Draco took it gingerly.

'It's a copy of the contract,' she said, still panting and only slowly recovering her breath. 'I signed it.'

Draco's eyes widened in delighted surprise.

'Why, Granger, I began to think you weren't interested,' he commented wryly.

'Well, I suppose I proved you wrong then.'

'In that case, I don't mind being wrong,' he smirked. 'You're not going to regret it.'

'What has changed?' she questioned unexpectedly.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean you,' said Granger, gesturing at him as though pointing out the obvious. 'What's changed in the past couple of years that made you care about house-elf rights?'

Draco could hardly tell her that house-elves only played a minor role in his endeavour, hence answering vaguely, 'Seems like one hell of a question for a quick chinwag in passing.'

 _Don't be such a wuss_ , he thought. He might as well try and be bold, even though he knew he'd regret it.

'I was just about to grab some lunch,' he added, ostensibly nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails. 'Would you like to come?'

Granger stared at him, lips parted slightly and obviously nonplussed.

'I … um …'

Was that a pink hue spreading on her cheeks?  _Probably just exertion from her sprint._

'I'm sorry, I don't think I should,' she said sheepishly, knitting her brows and working her lip. 'Sorry.'

'Then I suppose it shouldn't be too difficult for you to figure me out,' Draco quipped, crossing his arms. 'What with that big brain of yours.'

'I … again, so sorry,' she muttered dumbfoundedly. 'It's nothing personal.'

'I could hardly resent you for it if it were, could I?'

'What are you talking about?'

'Oh please, Granger, use your common sense,' sneered Draco, shoving his hands into his pockets. 'It's not exactly like we've been the best of friends in the past.'

He took a couple of steps backwards and added "See you around" before turning on his heels and walking away.

Draco knew it hadn't been fair to ask her out – regardless of how casual his suggestion may have come across; she thought she was involved with somebody else. Against his better judgement, he couldn't help but feel a nasty twinge to his stomach as a response to her rejection. Then again, he'd just found out one particular detail about her that lifted his spirits in one way: even in their early stage of dating, she was faithful to a fault.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place was nothing like the house Hermione had once sought refuge in anymore. It had taken several months and a lot of delicate spellwork to transform the place from an ancient, pure-blood stronghold into a cosy and welcoming home – now luckily vacant of a particularly aggravating portrait.

'Good evening Miss,' croaked Kreacher, bowing his head so low that his nose touched the floor.

'Hello, Kreacher,' said Hermione cordially and took off her cloak, which Kreacher Magicked so that it hung itself onto the coat rack. 'Thank you.'

'The Mistress and Miss Luna await in the kitchen, if you would follow Kreacher …'

The elf pitter-pattered down the long corridor, indicating her to follow.

'Hermione!' beamed Ginny, pulling her into a hug as soon as she'd entered the room. The kitchen was the only room in the entire house that still looked untouched, except for a few pictures hanging on the wall and fresh carpets covering the floor.

'Hey Ginny, hey Luna,' she said, turning to the blonde witch seated at the long, wooden table.

'Hello, Hermione,' said Luna softly, tilting her head and looking up from the steaming mug in front of her. 'You don't look so good.'

Hermione might have frowned at a statement like that years ago. Now, however – what with being all too familiar with her quirkiness – she flashed Luna a gentle smile.

'You might be on to something there,' admitted Hermione.

'You must tell, but first'– Ginny thrust a hot mug into Hermione's hands – 'have some mulled wine. It's my mother's recipe – I just tweaked it a bit.'

Hermione carefully sipped at the hot liquid, almost dropping the mug when smoke protruded from her ears and nose. Luna and Ginny burst into laughter.

'Did you put  _Pepper Imps_  in there?'

'Just one,' said Ginny innocently, pursing her lips and stifling another laugh, 'The effect wears off after a few sips, though, so drink up.'

'This is fantastic,' said Hermione appreciatively. 'Really warms you up from the inside out. And I love the touch of peppermint.'

'I know, right? I told George and Ron to put up a pushcart in front of the joke shop for the weekend, and they agreed to it! I'll make the wine, and they'll give me fifteen per cent of the revenue in return. I reckon it'll make the shoppers very happy, what with walking around in the cold for so long.'

'That's a brilliant idea! I'll make sure to pass by and make Leon drink one.'

'Leon, huh?' Ginny wiggled her eyebrows. She sat down opposite Luna (who had her head tilted back, staring towards the ceiling as though it were the most captivating thing in the world) and patted the bench, indicating for Hermione to sit next to her.

'So,' drawled Ginny, a mischievous grin on her lips, 'You're going out with him then?'

'Well, tomorrow's our third date in seven days, so I suppose so, yes.'

'Tell me,' said Ginny, 'is he fit?'

Hermione's lips quirked up into an abashed smile.

'I  _knew_ it!' cried Ginny excitedly. 'Way to go, Hermione! Now – I want to hear more details. Harry already told me he's a polite bloke, but when I asked him what he looked like, he just said he was tall. What an intriguing piece of information, Harry!' She rolled her eyes, but Hermione could detect the fondness in her expression. 'Merlin, he's absolutely  _useless_ when it comes to observing people. How he manages to be good at his job is a mystery to me.'

'True,' Hermione laughed and took another sip of her drink. 'Leon is indeed tall,' she said. When Ginny raised an eyebrow at her, she continued: 'He's blond … handsome … he's got blue eyes. What else can I tell you?' She paused, then smiled. 'He smells good. He's witty and funny and very well-mannered.'

'Quite the gentleman, huh?' commented Ginny.

'Absolutely,' affirmed Hermione.

'And?'

'And what?'

'You know what,' probed the redhead and Hermione felt heat rush to her face.

'Can't you tell?' interjected Luna, now looking at Ginny with popping eyes. 'They haven't kissed yet.'

'How do you do this?' asked Ginny incredulously.

'I am more observant than Harry,' said Luna, making a sound between a hum and a chuckle.

'She's right,' Hermione said to Ginny, almost apologetically. 'We haven't kissed.'

'Two dates so far, you say? Not that dramatic then, is it? Besides, you're going out again tomorrow, and everyone knows that the third time's the charm!'

'Maybe,' said Hermione quietly. 'I just have this feeling that he's avoiding it, you know? It's hard to describe … on our first night out I was a bit drunk, so I can  _completely_ understand that he didn't want to kiss me then. Besides, like I said, it was the very first date, if you don't count the business lunch we had together. Then last Sunday, we went out for coffee. It was half a date, half a business meeting, seeing as I had to read over his article. Anyway, one minute he's looking at me like … I don't know, like he wants nothing more than to kiss me, but then he just doesn't! I'm throwing hints at him like crazy. I'm beginning to feel pathetic! Maybe he's not into me after all.'

'Oh, he  _sure_ is,' said Ginny, picking up the Monday issue of the  _Daily Prophet_  from the sideboard behind her. 'Listen to this: "Hermione Granger … renowned War heroine and political activist … is modest to a fault when it concerns her remarkable achievements … determined to revolutionise the way the wizarding community see other magical beings"–'

'How exactly does that prove he's into me?' commented Hermione sceptically.

'Oh please. He's showering you with so much praise, I'm surprised the paper doesn't ooze phlegm,' replied Ginny wryly. 'I mean it's not  _that_ bad. He's not being overly soppy or anything. But if you read between the lines …'

'I agree,' said Luna. 'He likes you.'

'Well, if he does, he doesn't act upon it,' said Hermione, now clearly frustrated. 'Do you think there might be someone else? I heard Padma Patil is working with him – Hannah found out. You don't suppose they're – you know, involved with each other somehow?'

'Rubbish,' said Ginny. 'I don't think so. Besides, I saw her just the other day, on a date with some bloke I've never seen before in my life. Probably a Muggle.'

'Maybe,' interposed Luna dreamily, 'maybe he's not who he says he is.'

The two ex-Gryffindors shot her a sceptical look in unison, urging her to explain.

'He could be someone famous in disguise, you see.'

'I don't think that's very likely, Luna,' said Hermione, shaking her head. 'And why in Merlin's name would a celebrity choose to work as a journalist? It doesn't make sense. No ... oh, I don't know. I just can't seem to figure him out.'

'Where is he taking you tomorrow?' enquired Ginny.

'Oh, we're going to a book reading and signing at Flourish and Blotts,' answered Hermione enthusiastically.

'Of whom?'

'Gethsemane Prickle.'

'The herbologist and potioneer?' asked Luna. 'She must be ancient by now.'

'I hear she's one hundred and three. Impressive, don't you think?'

'I think what's impressive is that you're still not convinced he's into you,' snorted Ginny, causing Hermione to raise an eyebrow. 'I mean he's taking you to a sodding  _book reading_!' she said, flailing about. 'For one, he clearly listens to you. As I am sure, you've already let slip at some point that you have an inexplicably affectionate relationship with books. Second of all, he's willing to sit through an entire lecture, listening to some old hag talking about Leaping Toadstools and their application in potion-making. Put two and two together, for Godric's sake!'

'Did you know that Leaping Toadstools only leap because Bouncing Bollyhocks live underneath them?'

'More like a bunch of bouncing bollocks,' quipped Ginny, bursting into a fit of laughter at her own comment, by which Luna seemed thoroughly unaffected.

'That is funny,' she admitted softly and smiled.

'You two are unbelievable sometimes,' said Hermione, making an effort to sound collected, but failing miserably after being unable to hold back her giggles.

'Would Mistress and Miss Luna and Miss Hermione like to have supper now?'

Kreacher had popped up out of thin air, carrying with him a tea tray.

'That'd be lovely, Kreacher, thank you,' said Ginny, trying to regain her composure.

The elf clicked his fingers, and a large pot hovered towards them, along with crockery and cutlery.

'Kreacher has made lamb stew, Mistress,' he grated.

'Hmm, this smells delicious, Kreacher,' said Hermione, eyes closed.

'Kreacher hopes you will enjoy your meal,' he said, and with another  _pop_ , he was gone.

'But there's more Hermione's not telling us,' claimed Luna, as if they had never been interrupted by the house-elf in the first place. Hermione began to wonder if she had begun to pick up Legilimency.

'You're right, there is,' she yielded, helping herself to the stew. 'But it's not about Leon. This is a tad … weird and you're probably not going to believe me, anyway.'

'Why?' asked Ginny, already poking in her food. 'Come on, spill!'

Hermione took a deep breath and said, 'Malfoy's asked me out. Or at least I think he did.'

'You can't be serious,' said Ginny, holding her fork in place halfway between the plate and her mouth.

'I am. Well, he asked if I wanted to join him for lunch.'

'No way,' said the redhead. 'What did you say?'

'What do you think?' retorted Hermione, looking at Ginny as though she had just suggested Hermione go and live with the Giant Squid. 'I declined, of course! I'm already seeing someone.'

'So assuming you weren't seeing anyone, would you have said yes?' probed Ginny, smirking.

'No … I mean, I don't know,' mumbled Hermione. 'Maybe? I … it's  _Malfoy_!' she exclaimed as if that was reason enough.

'But,' drawled Ginny, 'he's also asked you out on a date! And you can't deny, he's incredibly fit.'

'Ginny!'

'S'pose that makes him … a fit git.'

Ginny snorted with laughter and wiped away a tear.

'She's right, you know,' said Luna, looking at Hermione with protuberant eyes. 'He is handsome. But he probably asked you out because of the Wrackspurts. He's always had lots of them.'

That must have settled the matter for Luna, seeing as she turned back to her plate, humming a blissful tune while spooning her stew. Ginny and Hermione exchanged looks of endearment. The former Ravenclaw was ever determined to travel the world in order to find the Crumple-Horned Snorkack, and while neither of her friends truly believed in the existence of said creature (or others stemming from the Lovegoods' wild imagination, for that matter), they respected Luna for her insatiable curiosity and vigorous resolve. Although, it didn't keep them from making the occasional joke now and again.

Hermione wasn't at all unhappy about moving out from the spotlight of their conversation for the remainder of the evening. Luna disclosed that she had made plans to travel around Scandinavia with Rolf Scamander who – as she declared matter-of-factly – was now officially her boyfriend.

Ginny continuously encouraged them to have more wine, while only drinking water herself, constantly complaining about having to attend Quidditch practice first thing in the morning. It wasn't until Harry returned home from a night out with Ron, Dean, and Seamus that Luna and Hermione took their leave.

Neatly tucked into her bed half an hour later, Hermione made up her mind to go for it come morning; if Leon wasn't going to make a move, she would. The third time would indeed be the charm – he just didn't know it yet.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Merlin, what  _is_ this?' coughed Draco. He was standing in the freezing cold, staring warily at the steaming mug in his hands.

'Peppered Wine,' said George Weasley cheerfully. 'Makes your ears smoke. Or your ear, depending on how many of those you have,' he chuckled.

Draco found himself surrounded by no less than two Weasleys and, of course, a very particular, bushy haired witch. She was sniggering into her (undoubtedly handknit) mittens, but Draco couldn't tell whether she was laughing at him or because of George Weasley's quip. Then again, it didn't actually matter; she was happy, and that was enough.

After Draco's feeble attempt at asking Granger out without being in disguise, he had conceded to the realisation that any time spent with the witch was better than not spending time with her at all. Hence, he'd invited her to accompany him – as Leon again, of course – to a book reading; one which he'd have gone to either way. Gethsemane Prickle was an extraordinary potioneer and Draco would not miss the chance of learning new things from the author first-hand.

'Why don't you come in and check out our brand new collection of Patented Daydream Charms?' suggested Ron Weasley. 'You know,' he continued in a stage whisper, hand shielding his mouth from Granger's view, 'in case you want to have some actual fun at that book reading.'

'Ronald,' the witch scolded, chuckling and poking him in the arm. 'You're being rude.'

'Yes,  _Ronald_ ,' said the older Weasley, 'how could you? Advertising our products so shamelessly …'

With that, he bowed his head and excused himself back to the shop. His brother mumbled a sheepish apology, but wiggled his eyebrows at Draco nonetheless.

'Thanks for the offer,' said Draco eventually, 'but I'm actually interested in hearing what she has to say. Her new book is about … what was it again, Hermione?'

'Recent developments in herb processing and cutting techniques and how they influence the quality of the respective potion.'

'Sounds fascinating,' mocked Weasley. 'Almost as fascinating as a vivid and very realistic dream about playing for your favourite Quidditch team and becoming the most valuable player of the match. You do like Quidditch, don't you, Leon?'

'Who doesn't?' Draco retorted, genuinely grinning.

Weasley cocked his head at Granger, who muttered something unintelligible into her scarf.

'What's your favourite team?' Weasley asked.

'Appleby Arrows, you?'

'Chudley Cannons,' said Weasley proudly.

'You must be prone to suffering then,' jibed Draco, expecting Weasley to be furious, yet the redhead only shrugged and said, 'Once a fan, always a fan – I just can't support anything that doesn't have "Cannon" written all over it.'

'What was the name of that dreadful Seeker again? The one who was hit in the face by the Snitch?'

Weasley flinched. 'Gudgeon. Galvin Gudgeon,' he replied. 'Don't remind me. Do you play?'

'Yeah,' said Draco, who still couldn't quite wrap his mind around having a civil conversation with the weasel. 'I've always played Seeker. What about you?' he asked, despite knowing the answer.

'I'm a Keeper,' smirked Weasley, and Granger rolled her eyes facetiously.

'You should come and join us sometime,' he suggested. 'We usually play in my parents' orchard. Once it gets a bit warmer, that is.'

'Sure, why not?' said Draco, finding it hard to imagine playing Quidditch with Weasley and – most likely – Potter. Although it did itch him with the opportunity to finally beat Potter at catching the Snitch …

A tug on his arm made Draco jerk his head to the right.

'Leon, we have to go if we want to make it in time,' said Granger, looking up at him, her face neatly framed by her knitted hat and scarf, cheeks red from the cold. Draco couldn't help but smile. She looked so pretty. How had he never realised it before?

'You wouldn't want to miss the introduction, as I am sure it'll be mind-blowing,' said Weasley, grinning. 'It was good meeting you, mate.' He extended his hand and Draco took it, although hesitantly.

'Likewise,' he said, trying to look not at all puzzled by Weasley's friendly gesture. 'Good luck with selling these.'

Draco emptied the rest of his drink – now gone cold and provoking only a puny white puff out of his nose – and shoved the mug back into Weasley's hand. Before he could extend his arm to Granger, she had already taken his hand into hers, wrapping it with her fluffy mittens.

'Your fingers will get cold,' she said hastily.

'A lousy excuse,' smirked Draco, squeezing her hand softly. 'But I can't say I'm complaining. Ready?'

Granger beamed at him.

'Ready.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

They left Flourish and Blotts with books in their bags and smiles on their faces. Hermione was in a very good mood. First of all, they'd met Hannah and Neville, the latter claiming to use the opportunity to prepare himself for his future teaching position. Secondly, the reading itself had been mind-blowing indeed, despite Ron's saying it as a joke.

She'd learnt so much from the brilliant witch, who had even recognised her when Hermione had gone to have her copy of the book signed. Prickle had then engaged Hermione in an engrossing conversation until Leon had politely drawn their attention to the line of people waiting behind them, all but dragging Hermione away from the potioneer.

'And what she said about using various types of knives … I would have never thought the material of the blade would make  _such_ a difference!' she told Leon, who only looked at her endearingly. Merlin, he was so handsome. He smelt incredible, too. Like parchment … and butter toffees …

_Well, now you're just making things up!_

'I'm glad you had a good time,' said Leon, interrupting her barmy thoughts. 'May I walk you home?'

'I could walk  _you_ home, too, you know.'

'I bet you could,' he chuckled. 'Maybe next time.'

'So never?'

'I didn't say that.'

'Alright then, walk me home,' said Hermione, snaking an arm through his – she was beginning to get used to doing that.

This time, Leon didn't need her directions to find her place.

 _He wouldn't have remembered if he didn't care_ , thought Hermione, eliciting hopes in herself. Maybe this was it; the night of their first kiss. She felt her heart pound heavily.

'What are your plans for tomorrow?' she enquired casually, trying to block out the constriction within her chest.

'I don't know yet,' he said. 'Why? Do you have plans?'

'No … but,' she trailed off. They had come to a halt in front of her house. Turning to Leon, she locked eyes with him, surprised to see an emotion she hadn't anticipated within them. He looked … sad somehow.

'Are you alright?' she asked.

'What? Oh, yeah,' he said, rubbing his neck. 'Why wouldn't I be?'

'You tell me.'

Hermione's heart skipped a beat when Leon reached out his hand to gently stroke a strand of hair away from her face.

_Go for it._

Without any further seconds wasted on uncertainty, Hermione raised herself on tiptoes and slung her arms around his neck. They were so close now that their noses touched, Hermione inhaling his enticing scent like a newfound drug. She could feel his breath tickling her skin, his lashes fluttering against her cheek.

_Just do it already!_

Heart pounding and breath faltering, Hermione closed her eyes and tilted her head. For a split-second, she felt his lips brushing against hers; soft, almost impalpable. For a split-second, her hopes were equally high up as she was, the lingering effects of breathing in his cologne overshadowing all former reluctance.

And then, just before she would have pressed her lips to his, he turned his head to the side, forcing her to plant a kiss on his cheek instead. He pulled away instantly, and Hermione's arms fell limply to her sides.

'I'm sorry,' he muttered, stumbling backwards. 'So sorry.'

Hermione didn't speak a word. She just stood there, mortified.

'I can't,' he sputtered, backpedalling away slowly. 'I – it's … I'm so sorry.'

And with that, he turned around, all but running into the darkness; away from what could have been. Away from her.

 


	8. The Faceless

— CHAPTER EIGHT —

_**The Faceless** _

_"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth, tell the truth!"_

_She screamed her lungs out, and Draco almost stirred. Almost. With his wand gripped tightly, he watched as her head jerked from side to side, curls crusted with blood spanning across the dark stained floorboards as Bellatrix pinned her down, insanity flickering from the older witch's heavily-lidded eyes._

_"What else did you take?" she snarled. "What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"_

_The girl sobbed, panic-driven. Her breath came out in rattling thrusts that chilled Draco down to his bones. She turned towards him, her expression changed. It was empty now. Apathetic. Bellatrix had stopped moving and time came to a complete halt around them._

_"Why didn't you help me?"_

_The scene transformed and Draco found himself in front of a yellow house. She was standing there, sleeves rolled up, skin freshly mutilated. Draco looked down and saw that his hands were covered in blood._

_"Why?"_

_She took a step forward and cupped his cheeks in her grasp._

_"Why did you lie to me, Draco?"_

_Her fingernails clawed at his skin as she leant into him, momentarily brushing her lips against his – her breath reeked of iron._

_"How could you do this to me?" she whispered._

_And then her face convulsed, brown eyes filled with rage._

_"HOW COULD YOU?"_

Draco jerked up, gasping for air, his heart violently pounding. For a few long moments, he did nothing but try and steady his breath.

It had been a while since he'd dreamt of that particular memory. Only this time, it'd been different. Normally, he would just stand there, in the Manor's drawing room, drowning in a slough of guilt and self-pity while watching Granger scream and cry for what seemed to be hours on end. This time, however …

His nightmare vision was right to accuse him: He was lying to her. Even playing with her, perhaps. He should have never agreed to go on that first date; he ought to have more self-control.

Draco let himself fall back into the sheets, turning his head towards the alarm clock – it wasn't even two in the morning yet. Pushing his torso up with a groan and opening the bedside table's drawer, he took out a small vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion. Yes, a few hours of undisturbed sleep would be most welcome. He unstopped the bottle and drank just enough to get him through the night. Trying not to think about anything but the feeling of the soft duvet against his skin, he eventually dozed off into the blackness of his mind.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Becoming Leon in the morning required a greater deal of self-discipline than ever before. Draco knew he had the disguise to thank for going out with Granger in the first place, but it also made whatever it was they had so fucking complicated. Draco downed the potion, albeit grudgingly – he didn't have a choice unless he wanted to lose everything he'd built up for himself.

One foot already in the fireplace, he suddenly remembered he'd run out of ink, hence turning around and heading for the door. He might as well walk to work for a change and run his errand on the way.

' _Homenum Revelio_ ,' he whispered before opening the front door which led out to one of Diagon Alley's smaller side streets. Draco was never as careless as to exit Draco Malfoy's house looking like Leon Boswell without checking for potential spectators first. As soon as the spell confirmed that there were no people nearby, he stepped out into the grey of dawn.

Rain was coating the cobbled pavement with a silvery gloss finish, fat drops bouncing off the ground like popcorn; the sky a dark, slowly swirling mass. Draco squinted against the downpour, lifting his wand and casting a Water-Repelling Spell to shield himself from the wetness.

After a few metres of trodding down the street, he stopped in his tracks. Something wasn't right. He felt his hackles rise, but whether it was the damp cold or that nagging feeling of being watched, he could not tell. He peered over his shoulder but saw nothing.

'Leon, hey, Leon!'

Draco spun his head back around. The voice, although muffled from the rain, was clearly coming from the direction in which he was heading. Draco made out a slim silhouette, draped in what appeared to be a navy blue raincoat. It was Padma. She too was holding her wand like an umbrella handle, and within a couple of quick strides, she was standing beside him.

'Good morning, Padma,' said Draco politely, still feeling his neck prickle with disquiet.

'Morning! I must admit I'm surprised to see you out here – I started to think you don't exist outside the office,' she quipped, oblivious to how close she was to the truth.

'Right – I must be a figment of your imagination, then,' said Draco, resisting the pressing urge to investigate their surroundings.

'I don't know if my mind could come up with someone like you,' chuckled Padma. 'For one, if you really sprung from my imagination, you'd talk to me more. Oh, don't give me that look!' she exclaimed, and Draco realised he must have shot her a pitiful glance. 'It's alright. I get it – you're not interested. But that doesn't mean we can't be friends, right? Come on, let's walk.'

Draco nodded curtly and fell in with her strides, wondering what had changed that made Padma act so … normal around him – so unlike her usual, flirtatious self. However, now that he thought about it, she'd been acting differently for at least the past week.

 _She's probably had a good shag_ , he thought, withholding a mischievous grin.

'So,' drawled Padma, 'for when is the second article scheduled?'

Draco flinched inwardly. He strongly doubted that Granger still wanted to be interviewed by him, what with the way their most recent encounter had ended.

'I don't know,' he replied candidly. 'We haven't discussed it yet.'

'I see,' she smirked. 'You know, this is really none of my business …'

'But?' He quirked an eyebrow, apprehensive of the question to come.

'Are you going out with her?'

Draco nearly tripped over one of the cobblestones.

'Um …'

'You are!' she concluded, slapping him on the shoulder. 'She's one lucky witch.'

'Thank you?' mumbled Draco. Padma let out a girlish giggle.

'Sometimes I wonder how you can be so oblivious to the effect you have on other people,' she said. 'For your information, you're gorgeous.'

'I'm not sure if –'

'Nonsense! You are – from a very objective point of view, of course,' she winked at him. 'But if I'm being completely honest, you can be quite stand-offish at times. No offence,'

'None taken.'

'And seeing you're such a hard nut to crack, she must be tougher than I thought,' added Padma nonchalantly.

'You have no idea,' said Draco, chuckling dryly and slowing down as soon as he spotted the sign that read "Scribbulus Writing Implements".

'Work's this way,' said Padma, indicating her thumb down the alley.

'You go ahead … I still need to buy new ink.'

'Alright,' Padma smiled at him. 'I'll ask Bridget to make you some tea – for when you get there.'

Draco thanked her, watching for a moment as she walked away with a skip in her step.

 _She definitely got laid_ , he thought and – now that she wasn't looking – allowed the grin to spread for a second till the uneasiness carved its way into his conscious again. His hand already on the door handle, he hesitated and shot another look past his shoulder – yet again, there was nothing there except for the usual morning bustle and the thick curtain of rain. Draco tried to shake off the feeling, but unsuccessfully so; he could have sworn that someone – or something – had been watching them.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Blimey!'

Hermione winced at the  _clank_  of porcelain on wood and watched as the cold tea spilt, percolating across the report she'd just been reading. Merlin, she was getting clumsier by the day.

' _Scourgify_ ,' she said, pointing her wand at the mess. If only her own, very personal mess could be cleaned up as easily. Unfortunately, magic could only do so much. Love – if her recent experiences with a certain reporter even fell under that category yet – was a branch of magic on its own, and the most complex of them all, at that. Infatuation you could put a stopper on; true feelings, however … Hermione let out a wistful sigh.

'What's got your knickers in a twist?' jeered an all too familiar voice that made Hermione jump. She jerked her head up and saw Malfoy leaning against the frame of her office door, arms crossed and staring at her. He had his signature sneer plastered on his face, yet there was something different about the way he regarded her. If she hadn't known any better, she would have interpreted it as worry. Or frustration. Probably frustration.

'What do you mean?'

Malfoy pushed himself off the doorframe and sauntered towards her.

'Look at yourself.' He cocked his chin in her direction.

'Why, what's wrong?' she queried, peering down and expecting to spot a big tea stain on her new shirt.

'It's not your clothes, Granger – although you might want to reconsider that colour. Green suits you better.'

'I think I am more than capable of picking out my own clothes, thank you very much,' Hermione said crossly, but Malfoy didn't seem affected by her altered inflection in the least. Not only that, he even had the audacity to grin! An inexplicable shiver crept up her spine.

'What is it then, Malfoy?' she asked, voice spiced with annoyance.

'It's your eyes,' he said plainly. 'You're tired.'

'Well, that's not at all unusual for a Monday afternoon, is it?' retorted Hermione.

'Not sleepy tired,' said Malfoy. 'Worn out. Drained.'

'Why, thank you, Malfoy,' Hermione huffed, shuffling around papers on her desk as to appear busy when in reality, she hadn't the faintest idea what to do with her hands. 'Very charming, as usual.'

'That's what I'm here for,' he smirked.

'What  _are_  you here for, anyway?'

'Isn't that obvious?'

'As a matter of fact, it is not,' said Hermione, hauling herself out of her chair and pushing her palms against the desk.

'I came to check on you, of course,' said Malfoy as though his looking after her was the most natural thing in the world. Hermione furrowed her brow.

'You – check on me? Why?'

'Can I not care about the well-being of the head of the new project I pump Galleons into?'

Hermione wasn't sure whether she should feel relieved or disappointed – it always came down to money in the end, didn't it?

'No need to worry,' she said coolly. 'Your gold will be put to good use, and I won't let my being  _worn out_  affect it in any way. That's what we agreed upon, isn't it?'

'If you overexert yourself, you won't be able to work productively,' said Malfoy simply, upon which Hermione rolled her eyes.

'You should  _really_  work on your social skills, because whatever this is'– she gesticulated at him –'isn't helping.'

'Fair enough, let me try again,' he said, stepping closer to the desk. His voice sounded deeper all of the sudden. Calmer. Pleasant.

_What is wrong with you? Malfoy? Pleasant?_

'Hermione,' said Malfoy slowly, placing his hands on the wooden surface and thus bringing his face dangerously close to hers. She swallowed. 'You don't look well, and it might be for the best you take a couple of days off and get some rest.'

Her eyes met with piercing, storm-grey orbs, which Hermione searched for emotions; maybe they were flickering with worry after all.

'Why do you care?' she breathed.

'Am I not supposed to?' His voice sounded far too gentle for her liking.

'No, it's just that – I don't understand.'

'Just because you don't understand something doesn't make it any less real.' He broke eye contact, and Hermione could have sworn his eyes darted downwards for a second before shooting back up to her face. 'And just because I don't voice everything that crosses my mind doesn't mean I'm not thinking it,' he added hoarsely.

'Are you … are you flirting with me?' Hermione queried warily, brows knitting together even further.

'Would you want me to?'

Hermione felt heat rush to her face, at which point Malfoy flashed her a grin which extended entirely towards his bright eyes. Her friends had been right: he  _was_ attractive.

_Stop it! It's Draco sodding Malfoy!_

'You know, just to clear things up a bit,' he smirked, pushing himself off the desk and sauntering back towards the office door. 'When I asked you to join me for lunch last week – yes, that was meant as a date.'

Hermione wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Could her face be any hotter? Why was it that she reacted to him like that? She wasn't supposed to! For a very,  _very_ short-lived moment, Hermione considered taking Malfoy up on his offer. Being with her was apparently an inconvenience for Leon, so why not enter different territory? But no sooner had the thought taken shape in her head than she chided herself. So what if Leon wasn't ready yet? He had every right to take his time, and she was in no position to judge him.

'I meant it, Granger,' said Malfoy, standing in the doorframe again. 'Get some rest.'

Hermione nodded torpidly, too bewildered to speak.

'Also, should you reconsider …' he said, smiling devilishly. 'You know where to find me.'

Malfoy shut the door behind him and Hermione sunk back into her seat, lips parted slightly and still staring at the space the former Slytherin had occupied moments ago. She'd been left alone to her own devices for what felt like the umpteenth time in two weeks, and she couldn't help but wonder – what was it that made men act so mysteriously around her?

Hermione took a couple of deep breaths and massaged her forehead. Now that Malfoy had pointed it out to her, she noticed her exhaustion more than ever. She was hurt, but most of all tired from the constant battle waging between her heart and her head; the latter adamantly trying to convince the former that it shouldn't be pining over something as petty as dating troubles in the first place.

Against her better judgement, Hermione rose from her seat and wrapped herself up in her winter cloak. She left the office, mind set on calling in sick for the day, and maybe even the day after – just as Malfoy had so charmingly suggested. Had someone asked, Hermione couldn't have explained why she was taking his opinion into account. Listening to Draco Malfoy just felt so very odd, but – after all – he was so very right.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Alright, let's see … "The key to a successful spell is a single, truly happy memory". Hah! If that's all, it'll be a piece of cake, won't it?' Theo looked up from the book he was holding in his lap and blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. 'Off the top of my head, I can think of at least forty-three jolly moments I like to remember fondly,' he added wryly.

They were sitting cross-legged on the floor of Theo's living room, several spellbooks scattered between them. They'd moved his friend's sparse furnishings over to the walls, providing them with enough space to practise.

'Remember when we won the House Cup in our first year?' said Theo, his voice oozing sarcasm. 'Oh wait – we didn't!'

'Don't tell me you're still mad about that,' said Draco, although he, too, felt a wave of long gone, petty displeasure wash over him.

'I mean, it didn't kill us,' said Theo. 'But you have to admit; it was a dick move. We had won fair and square until that biased old coot decided to fuck us over. Remember how devastated Tracey was?'

'Yeah … she was crying, wasn't she?'

'Damn right she was,' confirmed Theo. 'She had been so excited about winning that silly thing, and she alone had earned us a shitload of points – more than anyone else in our year, I reckon. Oh … she was so cross with you when you lost us fifty for sneaking out at night,' he grinned.

'I know …' said Draco, mirroring his friend's expression. 'She almost slapped me.'

'If only she had, I could have used that as my happy memory … what a shame!'

'Fuck you, mate.'

'I love you, too,' winked Theo. 'Let's do this, shall we?'

Draco nodded, untangling his legs and standing up. With a wave of his wand, he made the books close and zoom to the side.

'Oi, I wanted to take a look at the incantation again!' protested Theo.

'Why? It's "Expecto Patronum".'

'Well, excuse me for doubting your expertise, oh almighty sorcerer'– Theo bowed down before him as a gesture of mock reverence – 'seeing as you have mastered the spell already.'

'Very funny,' snorted Draco amusedly, in spite of the building anxiety at what he was about to tackle. He had tried to conjure a Patronus before, yet nothing had ever come of it – not even a wisp of silver.

_The key to a successful spell is a single, truly happy memory._

Draco searched his mind, all the while staring vacantly at his shoes. Happy … when had he – as the book instructed – been  _truly_ happy? Every time he'd been given a gift, he'd been happy. Every time he'd flown a broom he'd been happy. Draco chuckled and shook his head, reminiscing about the many quixotic stories he used to tell his schoolmates back when they'd been little more than children. He looked up, secretly hoping his friend would have noticed his snigger so that they could both laugh about Draco's ludicrous tale of how he'd allegedly escaped a Muggle helicopter (and about how Pansy had been thick enough to believe him). Theo, however, had his eyes closed and his brow wrinkled, showing no reaction.

Draco turned back to his feet and tried hard to think of something … anything. He'd always been happy when some sort of misfortune had struck Potter; however, Draco was fairly sure that malicious glee did not count as true happiness – especially when it came to producing a Patronus. He thought back to when he'd seen Voldemort's body, lifeless at last – he'd been relieved beyond imagination, yes. But happy? So many people had lost their lives that day.

'You got one?' asked Theo after a while.

'I think so,' said Draco, clenching his jaw in concentration. He had settled on the day he'd received his first review; it had come from a nice old lady in Scarborough, who had praised his writing, his ideas – she'd even sent biscuits. Despite the excitement he'd felt when reading the letter, Draco already knew it wouldn't be a strong enough memory.

' _Expecto Patronum_ ,' he said loud and clear, and Theo followed suit. Nothing. They reiterated the incantation time and time again, yet still; not so much as a single silver particle would protrude from their wands. The harder they tried, the thicker the air grew with frustration.

'Merlin's fucking balls!'

Draco was panting, holding his knees, his wand still in hand. Punching the wall seemed like a compelling idea.

'Why, for fuck's sake?' he grunted. 'Why can't I do this?'

'I think you know the answer, mate,' said Theo understandingly, slapping him on the back.

'Easy for you to say,' hissed Draco, instantly realising he shouldn't have said that, because Theo drew back as though he'd burned himself, shooting an irate glare.

'What the actual fuck, Draco?  _Easy_?' he snarled, scowling. 'You got to be shitting me! Just because I don't have a bloody skull on my arm doesn't mean I've been on a sodding fun ride!'

'I'm sorry, mate, I didn't mean –'

'Oh, save it,' said Theo. 'It's always the same with you, isn't it? I get it – of the two of us, I'm the silly bloke – so consequently, I must live a happy-go-lucky life, right? Carefree.  _Easy_.'

'Theo, you know tha –'

'You think you're the only one with scars,' his friend muttered sombrely and slumped onto the floor.

'Theo …' said Draco carefully, squatting down and trying to lock eyes with his friend – he wanted to make sure he would let him speak this time. 'That's not what I think, and you know it.'

Theo laughed humourlessly and swiped away a strand of sweaty hair with the back of his hand.

'Look,' said Draco, 'we're both frustrated. We've been trying for hours, and nothing's happened. It's getting us nowhere. But this – us fighting – won't make it better.'

'Hexing you might,' said Theo, finally meeting his gaze. He was still scowling, but Draco could have sworn he saw a devilish glimmer in his ebon eyes.

'Go ahead,' offered Draco, rising to his feet and spreading his arms as if welcoming an old friend. 'Take it out on me.'

'Where would be the fun in that? You're practically begging for it … bloody ferret.'

Draco rolled his eyes in mock exasperation, watching as a reluctant smirk tugged at the corners of his friend's mouth.

'Come on, get up,' he said, offering his arm to Theo, who took it and pulled himself up.

'Butterbeer?' suggested Draco.

'Butterbeer.'

Draco flicked his wand, moving the sofa back into the room and collapsing into the soft upholstery before Summoning two bottles from the kitchenette. They sat in silence for a while, sipping their drinks, yet it wasn't one of those awkwardly quiet, uncomfortable moments in which suitable subjects to talk about were hard to come by. No, Theo and Draco shared a welcome moment of tranquillity – mutually agreed upon and appreciated by two close friends, who needn't say a word to be able to understand each other.

'I suppose you're struggling to find a memory, too, huh?' asked Draco after a few minutes.

'What do you think? I watched my mother die. My father's gone, too … which might be for the better, now that I think about it.'

Draco knew that Nott senior had been among the dead at the Battle of Hogwarts; Theo himself had told him, and Draco remembered how indifferent his friend had been about delivering the news. He couldn't blame him; Mr Nott had been a terrible father, even more so than Draco's own – Theo had more than once returned from a Christmas break with his body covered in bruises. Draco didn't know for sure, but he suspected Nott Sr had even had a hand in the death of his own wife. Theo preferred not to talk about it; all he would say was that he'd witnessed the tragic event, and Draco never pried, ever respectful of his friend's reticence. He, too, didn't care to discuss the many different ways in which the Dark Lord would "teach" his followers loyalty.

'I want to try again,' said Theo unexpectedly, setting his empty bottle onto the floor and hauling himself out of the sofa. He took a deep breath and said, ' _Expecto Patronum_.'

Nothing.

' _Expecto Patronum_!'

Again, nothing happened. Draco watched intently as his friend inhaled deeply once more and enunciated the incantation for the third time. And then – all of the sudden – pearl white mist billowed from the tip of Theo's wand; it was feeble, but undeniably there.

'Hah! Fuck yes – I did it!'

Draco pushed himself off the sofa and stared at the silvery wisp, mesmerised by its presence.

'That's fucking brilliant,' he said. 'What did you think about?'

'Tracey.'

'Just … Tracey?'

Theo shrugged. 'She's always been so nice to me at Hogwarts, you know … she knew I didn't like to talk much – she respected that; sat with me in the library sometimes. She used to call it "silent study sessions".' He chuckled. 'Just the other day she came into Gringotts and … I don't know, mate. The way she smiled at me just …'

He trailed off, rubbing his neck, and Draco realised at once that it was all the information he would get. Inescapably, his thoughts shifted to a certain Muggle-born. Maybe what worked for Theo, would work for him as well. He tried to envision Granger, chewing her lip like she always did when she was nervous or shy … their brief encounter at her office earlier that day had indeed lifted Draco's mood. She'd fidgeted under his gaze, blushed even. And most importantly, she'd recognised he'd been flirting with her.

Draco assumed a fighting stance and spoke clearly, ' _Expecto Patronum_!'

He had his eyes closed, focused on visualising her brown, kind orbs … her enchanting smile. For a blissful second, she was there;  _his_ witch. Then the image blurred, the corners of her mouth drooping … eyes glazing over with sadness – or was it disappointment? … ultimately, her face contorted into a scream.

 _"Why didn't you help me? WHY?"_  she yelled.

' _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!' cried Draco desperately, as though shouting the incantation could drown out the voice in his head. ' _EXPECTO_  …  _expecto_ …'

_"WHY DID YOU LIE TO ME?"_

Her voice sucked out the last shred of resolve left in him. Every time he tried to picture the real Granger, his nightmare vision would take over instantly.

'Draco?' he heard Theo's voice; it sounded muffled as though cotton balls were clogging his ears. 'Mate … come on.'

He had no recollection of how he'd ended up on the floor. Now it was Theo extending his arm and Draco took it gratefully, heaving himself up. He was struggling to stand still on his trembling legs.

'Sit down,' urged Theo, but Draco only shook his head.

'I'm fine.'

'Have it your way. Let me guess – Granger?'

'How'd you know?'

'You said her name, mate,' chortled Theo. 'It wasn't very hard to make the deduction after that. Besides … you've been acting differently as of late.'

'Different how?'

'Do you really want me to spell it out for you?'

'Not really, no,' said Draco, gradually regaining a steady feeling in his limbs. 'I just thought … you know, it worked for you.'

'It did, didn't it?' smirked Theo, evidently proud of his achievement, and rightfully so. His face went stern again when he said, 'the thing is – we both may have scars, but yours … that one's  _literally_  defiled you. It's blocking you. I think you'll need something stronger to be able to surpass that.'

Draco nodded absently, thoughts racing and a new-found resolve taking shape.

'I'm going to go see her,' he declared, Summoning the bag in which he always kept a spare vial of Polyjuice Potion.

'Tell her that you fancy her?' Theo mocked.

Draco didn't even bother to object.

'You're being serious,' said Theo, eyebrows shooting up and disappearing beneath his fringe. 'You really do like her.'

'I s'pose, yeah,' Draco shrugged, fidgeting with the flask.

'Are you sure you're not taking the piss?'

'Definitely not shitting you, mate.'

'What are you going to tell her, then?' asked Theo.

'I don't know,' admitted Draco. 'I just want to see her.'

Theo snorted. 'You're bloody hopeless.'

'Yeah, right. Love you, too,' chuckled Draco, before uncorking the phial and downing the potion.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

When Draco entered Diagon Alley it was no longer raining. A dense fog had taken its place, enveloping the houses and clouding the pavement – a sight all the more awe-inspiring in the darkness of night.

The hour was late and wizarding London stood desolate of the usual daytime hustle. Draco slung his cloak's hood over his head to shield him from the damp cold. He needed to apologise to her. Needed to … he had no idea what to do. Maybe he should give her what she  _thought_ she wanted and kiss her, hence ruining his chances of ever being forgiven for his deception. What in Salazar's name was he supposed to do? No matter his options, he'd probably end up hurting her either way. What mattered now was that he had to find a way to get rid of that bloody nightmare.

Just as he was about to turn onto the street where Granger lived, he heard something scutter behind him; but he'd noticed it too late. Before he could do so much as whirl around, a Full Body-Bind Curse hit him between the shoulder blades, the weight of his petrified body forcing him to fall face-first onto the ground. His head was throbbing, and he felt blood trickle down from his brow and nose, the taste of iron permeating his senses. Although he knew it wouldn't work, Draco tried to move with all his might and fight the curse laid upon him – to no avail.

' _Obscuro_ ,' a man's voice whispered, upon which everything turned pitch-black; he was blindfolded. ' _Mobilicorpus_.'

Draco felt his stiff body hover above the ground, his nose hitting several sharp cobblestone edges on the way. If it wasn't broken before, it surely was now.

' _Incarcerous_ ,' said the stranger, and multiple ropes wound themselves around his limbs and torso, the Body-Bind's effect wearing off simultaneously. He was then shoved against a cold wall; his voice – Leon's voice – coming out in a raucous whisper.

'Who are you?'

'We're no one,' said the man.

When the blindfold all of a sudden disappeared, Draco blinked several times, trying to make out the figure that was towering before him. The stranger was wearing a black cloak, hood drawn so low that Draco couldn't see his face; he was but a tall, dark silhouette against the white fog.

'We're nowhere – and everywhere,' the man continued. 'We will swallow this world and finish what the Dark Lord has begun.'

'What do you want from me?'

The figure cackled. 'You're a writer, aren't you, Mr Boswell? So write. Tell them the Faceless are coming. Tell them no one is safe. Tell that to your friend  _Potter_.' The man spat out the name in disgust. 'And to prove we're not idle …'

Draco breathed heavily, apprehensive of what was about to come. The hooded man lifted his wand and made a swishing motion, something stirring within the fog behind him … a body? Draco felt his pulse quicken. The closer the shape moved towards him, the more he was able to make out. Whoever it was was on their back, Levitating in mid-air, arms and legs dangling limply to their side as though they were lying on an invisible sickbed. Their sleek black hair was so long that it was brushing the ground; whenever it got stuck, hairs were being ripped out. It was definitely a woman … she was hovering right beside the man now. Poking out from her navy blue sleeves were delicate hands with perfectly manicured fingers … Draco knew those hands, and the realisation made him feel sick – it was Padma.

'No,' breathed Draco.

'I see you recognise her, then … let's reunite the happy couple, shall we?'

 _Happy couple?_  It immediately dawned on Draco that it must have been this man, or an accomplice, who had watched him and Padma earlier that day; they must have drawn the conclusion that it was her he was seeing. Draco silently and very selfishly thanked every deity on earth that they hadn't seen him with Granger.

' _Rennervate_ ,' muttered the hooded man, pointing his wand at Padma. She convulsed, gasping for breath as though surfacing from a long dive, panicking and thrashing her arms around in mid-air. The man clicked his tongue and lifted the spell, which allowed Padma to fall to the ground. She was shaking violently, and only when Draco saw that her breath was coming out in thick puffs did he realise that the temperature had dropped significantly.

'Padma …'

The witch scrambled onto her knees only with great difficulty, frantically scanning her surroundings for the source of his voice and eventually looking at where Draco was bound to the wall.

'Leon,' she sobbed, tears glittering in her eyes. 'I – I'm scared.'

'How touching,' drawled the man. 'You know … the Dark Lord was great … but foolish. He thought death the ultimate threat – but it's not. It's fear. And the eternal prison of living without a soul …'

He backed away slowly, cackling with laughter. Draco knew what was coming before he saw it. The slow, rattling breath of the tall figure gliding towards them made Draco's blood freeze in his veins.

'Leon … please … help me … they took my wand.'

Draco only then realised that the ropes previously restraining him had vanished. He drew his wand but sunk to the ground as if it were made of lead instead of wood, dragging him down to his knees. Every muscle in his body felt heavy, and Draco struggled to hold his head upright. The Dementor was closing in on Padma now. She screamed, but the dense fog seemed to swallow the noise; no one would be hearing her.

He had to do something … anything. His thoughts were racing desperately. Dementors couldn't be Stunned or harmed in any other physical way, that much was clear. Trying to escape seemed like a reasonable idea, but they were both too weak for running, let alone Disapparating – they'd only splinch beyond remedy and die a wretched death. Besides, there was still that mysterious man lurking somewhere in the mist, ready to intervene. Draco knew he had only one option …

 _Think of something happy_ , he told himself, but it was no use. All he could see was Padma, lying on the ground as if frozen in place, trembling, the cloaked creature ever moving closer.

' _Expecto Pat – Expecto_  …'

If Draco had struggled with the spell before, it was nothing compared to how he felt now – empty, and completely drained of every ounce of positive energy he might have had left inside him.

'What, can't protect her?' taunted the voice from within the veil of mist. 'What a shame … such a pretty little thing …'

' _Ex-expecto_  …' stammered Draco, but it was no use. The Dementor was now towering over Padma, a slimy, scabbed hand reaching out to her face as though it wanted to stroke her cheek – the grotesqueness of the scene made Draco gag. She was too weak to scream now. Instead, she just sobbed, tears streaming down her face, smudging her makeup, nose red and swollen from crying.

'P-Par –' she stuttered miserably. 'Mu-huhum …'

It was all she could say before the Dementor lowered its hooded face to level Padma's, sucking in the air she was breathing. It looked as if the creature was swallowing her, feeding on every memory – devouring her soul. Draco wanted to scream, but no sound would escape his lips. Padma's eyes were wide open; the last thing she'd ever feel would be fear.

When the Dementor drew back from her and disappeared into the fog, Draco knew it was over. He crawled towards Padma and settled her head on his lap. Her dark brown eyes were open, glazed over and vacantly staring past him, saliva dribbling from her mouth. Draco pressed two cold fingers to her neck; she still had a pulse, she was alive. Alive – but gone all the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bellatrix's direct speech in the dream scene is of course taken from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.


	9. Desperate Measures

**Lemons ho, ye landlubbers!**

* * *

— CHAPTER NINE —

_**Desperate Measures** _

_Hermione awoke with a contented smile on her lips, relishing in the warmth of the morning sunlight; its first rays were peeking through the curtains, caressing her face and making golden specks dance before her shut eyelids. Leon had his arm wrapped around her waist, his calm breath tickling her neck; Hermione snuggled closer into his embrace and laced her fingers through his._

_"Good morning princess," he whispered huskily into her ear, and Hermione felt a tingle run down her spine._

_"Good morning," she echoed, gently pulling his hand up to her lips and kissing it. Leon hummed his approval in a beautiful morning baritone, which Hermione found terribly alluring. She stirred again, this time purposefully rubbing her bottom against his loins._

_"What are you doing?" purred Leon and Hermione could tell he was smiling._

_"Nothing," she innocently replied while rolling her hips in a circular motion._

_"Hmm … doesn't feel like nothing … but I can't say I'm complaining."_

_Leon let go of her hand, slipping it under the blanket and stroking her curves, his mouth planting tender kisses onto the delicate skin behind her ear – Hermione breathed a sigh, now feeling his stiffening length prodding against her back. Leon's hand found its way underneath her spaghetti strap top, sliding all the way up till it rested on her sternum, his thumb only momentarily brushing her sensitive nub._

_Hermione moaned querulously, and Leon understood; cupping one breast entirely and circling her hardening bud with his index finger – teasing it, flicking it gently._

_"You like that, don't you?" he groaned, pressing his hips closer to hers as she sighed appreciatively. Warmth pooled below her navel, and as though he could speak the language of her breathy exhales, Leon's hand abandoned her breasts in favour of her knickers._

_Hermione tried to reach back and touch him, but Leon only gave her arm a soft nudge, saying, "No … this is about you … for now."_

_With that, he slid his hand between her legs, a thin layer of fabric all which was separating him from her heat. Hermione kept her eyes closed, losing herself in the moment and focusing solely on his fingers applying just the right amount of pressure to her swollen lips. He made her crave for so much more … so she turned around to face him, instantly covering his mouth with hers in a hungry kiss. They were long past teasing now; Hermione parting her lips and urging him to take what she so willingly offered – when he complied, Hermione moaned against him, reaching for his neck and burying her hands in his hair._

_However, the feel was not what she expected. Instead of thick waves, her fingers found sleek strands – she jerked her eyes open. Brown met grey, not blue, and Hermione pulled away._

'Bloody hell.'

She lay on her back, breathing heavily. The winter sun wasn't up yet; there was no Leon beside her … and  _definitely_ no Malfoy! What in Godric's name was wrong with her? It wasn't the first time that the handsome reporter had snuck into her dreams … but since when did Draco Malfoy dare to take his place?

Hermione moaned in frustration, aware of her very real arousal and torn halfway between giving in to her need and simply ignoring it as a matter of principle. She had snogged Malfoy in her half-sleep state, after all, thus making him partly responsible for the slick warmth between her thighs. On top of the reluctance to accept that her subconscious apparently found Malfoy attractive enough to fantasise about him, Hermione felt a twinge of guilt; no one could  _ever_ know about this!

Now, what was she to do about her predicament …

A familiar scratching noise on the bedroom door took the decision off her shoulders. Hermione groaned, reaching for her wand and opening the door with a flick.

'Hey, Crooks, what's wrong?' she asked, watching as the ginger cat dashed into the room, running around wildly. 'Have I overslept again?'

A look at her alarm clock clarified that she had not. Crookshanks leapt on her bed and began clawing at the cover, then jumped back onto the floor, shooting her an expectant look.

'Alright, alright, I'm coming,' said Hermione, flinging the duvet aside and following Crookshanks into her living room. Being Half-Kneazel, Crookshanks's intelligence far exceeded that of an ordinary cat, and Hermione had learnt (ever since she found out about his connection to Sirius) that she should trust his instincts as well as instructions.

When Hermione spotted the tawny owl perched on her windowsill, she immediately knew something was wrong. Normally, the  _Prophet_ 's delivery owl didn't come this early. Besides, Crookshanks had all but panicked at its presence, which – in and of itself – indicated bad news. She opened the window and took the paper, the small bird soaring into the twilight before Hermione even had the chance to effect payment.

What she held in her hands was a flyer rather than a newspaper and Hermione felt apprehensive over what it might say, all the more intensified by Crookshanks's incessant circling of her legs.

_DAILY PROPHET SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT:  
DEMENTOR ATTACK IN LONDON_

_To the wizarding population of Great Britain and Ireland:_

_My name is Leon Boswell. I am a_ Daily Prophet  _reporter and as of last night, 20 January 2002, the witness of a heinous crime committed to my colleague, Padma Patil. She was abducted by a terrorist group calling themselves the "Faceless", held captive for several hours, and ultimately kissed by a Dementor, hence irreversibly being deprived of her soul._

_The same felons ambushed me in Diagon Alley only minutes prior, before bringing me to her and making me watch. Why? So that I would write about it. Write about the Faceless. To me, they were merely a voice – the cold, venomous voice of a man clad in black, fully concealed beyond recognition. By all appearances, however, they are a vast organisation of criminals with the aim to "finish what the Dark Lord has begun" – in other words, wreak havoc and throw our world into turmoil once more, mercilessly torturing and killing everyone who they deem unworthy to live._

_Again, you may ask: why? Because of sheer, misguided hatred, lust for power, and a perverse sense of vigilantism – for there exists no reasonable explanation which would justify a cause as cruel as theirs._

_The Ministry now firmly believe that it was indeed the Faceless who have been responsible for not only the recent attack in Dover, but also for multiple others across Europe. "Ever since the incident two weeks ago, other Magical Law Enforcement Agencies have granted us access to their investigation files," said Harry Potter, whom I informed immediately after the attack. "While the parallels are obvious, they have nothing on them so far. It seems the attack tonight was the first with the sole purpose of informing the public about whatever twisted game they are playing."_

_Potter further divulged that, because of the attacker's self-statement about being formerly affiliated with Tom Riddle, better known as Lord Voldemort, it is "more than likely that the culprits were once Death Eaters". Few former Death Eaters have been spared a lifetime in Azkaban; however, Potter states, "the ones found not guilty have been proven redeemed and will be regarded with no more suspicion than anyone else"._

_While Riddle would also recruit Dementors for his army, the former guards of Azkaban appear to be the Faceless's major weapon. They are merciless creatures, bereft of even the slightest sense of conscience and compassion. They are powerful; almost silent, nothing tracing back to them except for the empty shells of bodies they leave in their wake._

_Any information regarding Dementor sightings, even uncommon weather changes as in a significant drop in temperature or the sudden appearance of misty shrouds (difficult as it might be to tell in the middle of winter), should be transferred to the Auror office immediately._

_The Ministry also urge everyone to learn to defend themselves. The Patronus Charm is the only effective counterspell against Dementors, and all witches and wizards carrying a wand should be able to at least produce an incorporeal Patronus. "I was taught the spell when I was thirteen," said Potter. "It might be advanced magic, but it is not impossible to learn at a young age. Teach your children, or make sure they are always accompanied by someone who has mastered [the spell]."_

_Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry, has already confirmed that the Patronus Charm will be taught to the entire student body; a Patronus help-centre is being established at the Ministry as we speak._

_But for now, my thoughts are with the Patil family._

_Padma Patil lost her soul as proof of a madman's ruthlessness. Her life was reduced to his plot device. Nothing more. She was subjected to mortal fear to prove a point – to me, to you, to our entire community. These people will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. They will not spare the ignorant, nor the innocent. I have experienced first-hand the lengths they will go to subdue us to their will._

_Be alert, stay vigilant. Do not underestimate them. This next part I say only because I was told to; because otherwise, an innocent soul would have been taken away entirely in vain:_

_The Faceless are coming. No one is safe._

Hermione lowered the flyer, utterly nonplussed and glued to her spot like a deer caught in the headlights. Padma … gone? Just like that? And an entire radical group on the rise? Suddenly she felt silly and almost ashamed for her earlier dream. When she had been thinking about Leon's touching her, he'd still been up; fretting and probably agonising about what he would tell her family. Oh, Parvati … she had already lost her best friend, and now her twin sister, too? Hermione felt her nose tickle – the herald of oncoming tears.

She rubbed her eyes and walked over to her bureau – she just had to write Leon. Every single one of her petty worries was forgotten when she realised he might be all alone. He'd lost his parents to the War, and Hermione wasn't sure if he had any close friends here in Britain; it had never occurred to her to ask. She felt very selfish all of a sudden, but she would make it right. When she dipped her quill into the inkwell, however, Hermione couldn't tell whether writing him was about Leon needing comfort – or her.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Padma's desk still looked the same as he'd last seen it. It contained a scrapbook plastered with cutouts of the latest fashion trends; a large hairbrush, long hairs poking out between the bristles; a pocket mirror sitting on top of article drafts, a lipstick right beside it; a picture frame, which Draco knew showed her and her twin sister at their cousin's wedding. She'd never smile with her sister like that again, let alone recognise her twin to begin with.

Draco rubbed his sleep-deprived eyes. He knew that if he were to look at his reflection in a mirror, he'd see dark circles underneath them. A mere twelve hours prior, he'd still been at Theo's; curious over how such a short time span felt like an eternity to him. It was unreal – everything had happened so fast.

He'd brought Padma to the Leaky Cauldron right away, needing to inform the Auror office somehow, and Draco knew (from their brief meeting at the book signing) that Longbottom was living there. He had Floo-called the Auror office immediately – the poor young chap working the night shift completely swamped with the situation. Hannah Abbott had then tended to Padma, too deeply invested in her desire to help than to cry.

When Longbottom – whom Draco had underestimated terribly – had cast a messenger Patronus to contact Potter, Draco had all but collapsed, feeling a miserable and inept failure. Abbott, caring Hufflepuff that she was, had noticed and brought him a blanket as well as chocolate and Firewhisky, for which Draco had been immensely grateful. She had also insisted on fixing his nose and other bruises, what with her training to become a Healer. The long hours after that – talking to Potter as well as writing and printing the announcement – had passed in a blur. Blurred like Parvati Patil's eyes, swimming with tears when she and her parents had arrived at the pub, seeing the empty shell that was once their family …

'Leon, dear?'

Draco snapped out of his thoughts, looking vacantly at Bridget, who was standing in the office door. Her eyes were red from crying.

'Are you okay, love?' she asked with a quivering voice. Draco lowered his head, resting his face in his palms. 'Oh, of course you're not, poor thing,' she added, walking up to him and gently patting his back. 'You should go home.'

Draco shook his head like a stubborn child. He couldn't. He was beyond tired, but he needed to keep busy, lest his composure crumble completely.

'They're going to hate me,' said Draco candidly, allowing himself to whinge for once – a demeanour he had learnt to be ineffective when it came to his mother, yet Bridget's warm-hearted nature all but invited him to.

'Who's going to hate you?'

'Her family,' he said, cocking his chin in the direction of Padma's desk. 'I failed to protect her.'

'Nonsense,' said Bridget, stemming her fists into her side. 'You did everything you could. It wasn't your fault.'

'Yes, it was. They thought she and I … if I hadn't walked to work, they would've never seen us together.'

'If Merpeople had feet, they'd learn the cha-cha,' said Bridget. 'Listen to me; this is  _not_ your fault. You were attacked, as was she. It's only normal that you panicked – I don't know if I'd been able to produce a Patronus in that situation; chances are, I wouldn't have. Now … you've been up all night, you had better go home and get some rest.'

'I don't want to,' objected Draco pigheadedly.

'Oh, I won't have any of that,' said the older witch, tugging on his sleeve. 'Come, I'll drag you if I –'

A tap on the window made Bridget let go.

'Let me get that for you,' she said, allowing the owl entrance and accepting the letter it carried. 'There you go, love.' She handed it to him, adding, 'If you're not gone within the hour, I swear, I'll make you go. Even if I have to carry you home myself.'

Draco nodded his head in defeat, upon which Bridget uttered a complacent "good", leaving him alone with the letter. The envelope had Leon's name written on it, Draco immediately recognising the delicate hand. He tore it open and pulled out the small piece of parchment.

_Dear Leon_

_I honestly don't know what to say, but I don't care. I'm so sorry to hear what happened. If you need anything, just let me know, alright? You can come by anytime; I took the day off anyway._

_Hermione_

Draco felt his chest inflate; she'd heeded his – Draco's – advice about calling in sick. After denying her the kiss that he, too, so desperately wanted, he'd expected her to be cross, unapproachable. He knew she'd been upset and worried when he'd seen her at her office – again, the memory of the previous day seemed utterly surreal to him – yet now, when it counted, she was there; no questions asked. He didn't deserve her or her kindness.

Granger's offer was tempting, and Draco seriously considered taking her up on it. How bittersweet it would be to allow himself to be cared for by the one witch he'd come to like so much more than he would have ever expected … but it was Draco who needed her comfort, not Leon. Oh, the mess he was in!

Salazar save him, he wanted her. If he left now and knocked on her door, he wouldn't be able to restrain himself, he was sure; the bliss of losing himself in her touch … no – he couldn't. He might as well force himself upon her … Draco shook off the thought and picked up his quill, scribbling an answer and hating himself for its brusqueness:

_Hermione_

_Thank you for the offer. I'm sorry. I can't accept. Too many loose ends that need tying up._

_Leon_

When Draco watched the owl leave with his letter, he felt his heart sink.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

He didn't receive any more messages from Granger over the course of the week; he was, however, showered with reader's letters, expressing their condolences and praise for his "courage" and "integrity". Draco didn't answer any of them. All he felt was numb and empty, what with brooding alone in his office, stoically trying to go on as if nothing had happened. He would never have thought that he'd actually miss Padma's gossiping.

Even more so, he missed Granger. Terribly. And he hadn't the faintest idea of what to do about it. Against the readers' opinion, bravery was not a trait he'd attribute to himself. Draco suspected that if he were to be bold and tell her the truth, he might lose her; a prospect which admittedly scared him, but seeing as he was evidently unable to have a relationship with her as Leon, either, it didn't really matter one way or another. Draco's thoughts kept circling aimlessly like that without getting remotely close to a solution, adding frustration to his already miserable list of emotions.

His anxiety grew even further when he received an invitation to Padma's "spiritual funeral", which would take place at the Patils' home on Sunday. Apparently, his former Divination teacher, Professor Trelawney, had come up with it, to "help her soul depart into the otherworld". Despite his lack of respect for the barmy old hag, he couldn't help but approve of the idea; it was proper to stage a ceremony for her. However, Draco only reluctantly accepted – he didn't care to face the people who would most likely regard him with false gratitude when in reality they wished he'd been in Padma's place. At least that's what his depressed mind kept telling him.

Instead of wearing all black, the invitation had asked that the guests come in purple – it would guide Padma's spirit along, or so they claimed. On Sunday morning, Draco simply transfigured the colour of one of his more formal suits and dress robes, in addition to adjusting the length of the trousers and sleeves to Leon's proportions, like he always did.

The Patils' house sat atop a hill on the outskirts of Falmouth, overlooking the rough winter sea to the south. It comprised three white hexagonal towers, with the middle one being the largest and highest; the extensive garden in front of it was decorated in shades of purple and turquoise. Once Draco set foot on the premises, he felt a pleasant gush of warmth wash over him – they must have cast Heating Charms as to keep the outside at a comfortable temperature.

Looking around, he saw many familiar faces, most of them former Hogwarts students – Draco wasn't surprised that the majority of them once belonged in Ravenclaw, Gryffindor, or Hufflepuff. The only Slytherins present were two girls from another year (whose names he had forgotten) and Blaise Zabini. Draco almost made a move to approach him, until he remembered who he pretended to be. Blaise used to be one of his friends at school, but unlike him and Theo, they never kept in touch; only occasionally stopping for a chat when they ran into each other in wizarding London. All of a sudden, Draco felt incredibly lonely; he searched the crowd, simultaneously hoping and dreading whom he might find.

When he spotted Granger, his heart involuntarily skipped a beat. She was talking to Luna Lovegood, who sported a fluffy, bell-shaped dress that made her look like an oversized artichoke in bloom. He watched Granger for a while, as she didn't seem to be aware of his scrutiny. After a few long moments, however, her gaze shifted to the side, warm brown eyes finally finding his. She seemed to have stopped talking in mid-sentence, because Lovegood turned around, tilting her head and flashing him a kind smile before attending to Granger again.

Granger did nothing of the sort. She only stared at him, brow furrowed and lips pursed, looking awfully sad – Draco wanted nothing more than to hold her tight and feel her curls tickle his skin; hold her until she forgot why she was sad in the first place. Granger then quirked up one corner of her mouth in the faintest attempt at a smile. When his expression remained blank, she closed her eyes and averted her gaze, looking as though it pained her to do so.

_Sod it._

He strode in her direction, only to stop halfway as a magically enhanced, misty voice carried over the garden.

'Welcome,' it said, and Draco spun around to see Sybill Trelawney, draped in innumerable violet shawls, wand held to her throat and standing nearby the house. Next to her stood Parvati and what Draco assumed to be her parents; they were all holding hands.

'We have gathered here today to bid farewell to Padma Madhari Patil, whose soul was taken from us far too early.' Mrs Patil sniffed noisily into a floral handkerchief. 'On behalf of the Patil family,' Trelawney went on, 'I would like to thank you all for coming. In times like these, we must light a beacon of hope and love against the darkness that has engulfed our world once again.'

Draco's gaze shifted over to Granger, who was staring at her feet. Had the Faceless seen him with her, it might have been her funeral they'd be commemorating, not Padma's. Suddenly, he knew exactly what he needed to do – even though it would surely break him.

'For all who wish to see her off into the afterlife,' said Trelawney nebulously, 'I invite you to stay for a special ritual I will later perform in order to guide Padma's spirit and soul along. However, I must warn you'– Trelawney's already magnified eyes protruded from their sockets and appeared even bigger than usual –'the ceremony is not for the squeamish. Now – go and share your memories of Padma, do not let her be forgotten! Today might be the day we say goodbye, but she will remain in our hearts forever.'

With that, she lowered her wand and patted Parvati's arm, the  _chink_  of multiple bangles and rings acoustically accentuating her gesture. Several guests followed her example and walked over to the Patils, offering them their condolences and sharing a tear or two. Among the mourners Draco also spotted other teachers from Hogwarts. While the Headmistress tried to maintain her composure, others like the Professors Flitwick, Sprout, or Hagrid did not seem to care to hide their emotions at all.

Draco knew he would have to speak to Parvati eventually; he had better get it over with so that he could take his leave. The ceremony Trelawney had mentioned was something Draco most certainly did  _not_ want to witness; he imagined there would be a lot of incense involved, more likely to make Padma's body physically choke to death than to guide her into the otherworld.

'Leon,' said Parvati softly, as soon as he stood before the mourning family. 'I can't thank you enough …'

'Thank me?' asked Draco incredulously. 'Why? If it hadn't been for me …'

'If it hadn't been for you, she'd be lying somewhere, frozen and unprotected,' said Parvati. 'You got her out of there … made sure she'd be cared for.'

It was strange talking to Parvati; until now, Draco had never realised just how much the sisters looked alike. Seeing as they had worn different colours at school and sat at different tables in the Great Hall, the potential for confusion had been rather low.

'May I ask,' began Draco carefully, 'may I ask where she is? What will happen to her body?'

Parvati flashed him a sad smile. 'You may. She's in the house, in her old bedroom. To be honest with you, we don't know what to do. The Ministry advised we take her to St Mungo's … they even suggested putting her into St Oswald's in Upper Flagley – you know, that home for the elderly'– Parvati snorted derisively –'but we're not going to do that. It's not proper. That's why we'll keep her here for now. Many of my family have volunteered to help, so we're all set for the time being. But … I don't know. I'm sure it sounds barbaric, but I am considering to – you know … let her  _go_.'

Draco's eyes widened. That he wouldn't have suspected at all.

'Oh, don't look at me like that,' said Parvati. 'I have dealt with death before, more than I'd like to admit. She won't be coming back. She's gone for good, just like Lavender – she was my best friend at school … fell in the War, you see. Keeping my sister's body alive like that … it's a disgrace to her legacy. But my parents won't have any of it. Not right now, at least. I just hope they'll change their minds someday. As for me … I just drew up my will. It now includes a paragraph on what shall happen if I get kissed – I don't want to rot away like that – I'd rather my body be dead, too. I wouldn't want to remain in limbo because that's what this'– she gestured at their surroundings – 'is ultimately about.'

'I think you're right,' said Draco and Parvati smiled gently at him.

'She liked you once, you know.'

Draco didn't miss that she was using the past tense.

'I know,' he replied bitterly. 'It was misplaced, though. She should have liked someone who could have given her what she wanted.'

'Oh, she did, alright,' said Parvati. 'Only recently, that is. She fancied this Muggle, Christopher – nice bloke. It's such a shame they never got to be together for real.'

'Did he know – you know – that she was a witch?'

Parvati shook her head, causing her golden hoop earrings to swing about.

'We wanted to invite him … let him say goodbye. But the Ministry deemed it not an important enough matter'– she wrinkled her nose –'so they had an Obliviator erase her from his memory. Now he'll never remember her.'

'For him, it might be for the better.'

'You think?' said Parvati, knitting her brows. 'Would you rather you never remember someone that you cared about?'

Of course he wouldn't. Even if it had been little less than a month since she'd re-entered his life, he couldn't fathom the idea of forgetting about Granger altogether. He'd sooner fall apart than see her beautiful face fade away into nothing.

'See?' said Parvati softly. 'It hurts, yes. It hurts so so much, it always will. But remembering is worth the pain – regardless of how brief the encounter.'

'And here you are … consoling  _me_  at your sister's funeral.'

'It doesn't matter,' she smiled. 'What matters is that we move on. That we keep fighting. We need good memories more than anything, these days.'

Draco felt the sudden urge to leave; her words had struck a nerve.

'I had better go. I cannot occupy your time all day.' Draco shot a glance at the other guests for emphasis.

'It's alright – thank you for coming, Leon,' said Parvati. 'I appreciate it. I know it must have been hard for you. Take care.'

'You, too,' nodded Draco and turned on his heels. There was something that he needed to get over with before he started to have second thoughts.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione felt utterly wretched. She was fidgeting with everything; her hands, her robes, her cuticles even. The latter was a habit even worse than her incessant lip-chewing, and one she only gave in to when she was past being nervous and bordering anxious. Despite being surrounded by her friends, loneliness weighed her down like hailstones battering leaves. She had expected to see Leon, what with his involvement in the recent incident, but she hadn't suspected the encounter would be  _this_ painful.

'Hermione?'

'Hm?' Her eyes shifted back to the redhead she had been talking to seconds prior.

'Are you feeling alright?' asked Ron.

'Oh – yeah, of course,' she muttered unconvincingly.

'Because I know your sad-face, Hermione.'

She only shrugged.

'When will you be going to Paris again?' Ron wanted to know, obviously trying to take her mind off the present.

'Tuesday, why?'

'Oh, good,' said Ron. 'For the entire week then?'

Hermione nodded. 'And the weekend. I doubt it'll be very recreational, though. My parents have come up with this crazy itinerary.'

'Promise me you'll go, okay?'

Hermione sighed in defeat. She knew Ron was only looking out for her.

'Promise,' she said, and Ron's face lit up for a second until he fixed his gaze on something Hermione couldn't see.

'Hermione?' a familiar voice called behind her. She wheeled around and met a pair of slate blue eyes, her chest constricting in an instant. In an attempt to say hello, she opened her mouth, but nothing escaped her lips.

'Can we talk?' asked Leon, and Hermione felt her heart pound heavily in apprehension of what commonly ensued after those three words.

'Sure,' she swallowed, looking over her shoulder to apologise to Ron, but her friend had already turned around to join the others.

'Let's go somewhere private, okay?' suggested Leon, indicating his thumb in the general direction of the Patils' oddly shaped house. Hermione nodded in agreement and fell in with his steps. She wanted nothing more than to just  _talk_ to him. Ask him how he'd been holding up. Ask him why he kept sending her mixed messages. Say something …  _anything_. Unfortunately, her Gryffindor courage did a bloody good job at hiding behind a seemingly impenetrable wall of anxiety.

A small piece of woodland came into sight once they had reached the back garden; the storage shed in front of it stood surrounded by some firewood stacks, an axe still rammed into one of the larger logs. Leon headed towards the shack, walking around it, Hermione on his heels.

'So,' she began once they had come to a halt, swaying back and forth on the balls of her feet and trying to sound as casual as possible, 'what did you want to talk to me about?'

He inhaled deeply and now she, too, held her breath, dreading what he was about to say; sadly, her gut instinct didn't fail this time.

'We can't see each other anymore,' said Leon and Hermione's expression faltered. 'It's too dangerous. They are watching me – Merlin knows why – and you can't be seen with me, or else …'

'Or else what?' she asked even though she knew the answer. Leon let off an exasperated grunt, raising his arms and running them through his hair.

'I'm not going to put your life in jeopardy should these maniacs decide they want me to deliver another one of their messages!'

'I am more than capable of defending myself!' Hermione protested, fists clenched at her sides.

'That's beyond the point! Besides, you've said it yourself – you're not even entirely sure if you can cast a Patronus in a life-threatening situation! And that's  _if_  they let you keep your wand …'

'Why?' cried Hermione, fighting the upcoming tears. 'Why are you doing this? You're going out with me, yet you don't want to kiss me. And now you're calling it off before we even had a chance?'

'Who says I don't want to kiss you?' growled Leon and Hermione's eyes widened. He seemed utterly tense, his pupils dilated and nostrils flared ever so slightly.

'Oh, you do?' she said hotly. This was her chance – Hermione needed to know; quench the thirst for his touch. And most of all, she needed a reason to get Draco bloody Malfoy out of her head.

Before Leon could do so much as blink, she sliced the distance between them and pulled his face down to hers, covering his lips in a heated kiss. Nothing about it was remotely timid – no testing this time, no teasing; any softness vanished entirely in the thick of their pent-up emotions. Hermione didn't even bother to analyse his kissing her back – the way he slung his arm around her waist, pulling her closer and burying his other hand in her hair, ruining her updo. He tasted of suppressed longing, of desperation, of …

Hermione couldn't shake the feeling that unlike in her dreams, something about this kiss wasn't right. But what? And why? How could something she wanted so badly feel so wrong? Hermione furrowed her brow, and her body went stiff, upon which Leon pulled back as if he'd received an electric shock, stumbling backwards, hair ruffled and eyes burning with desire.

'Fuck!' he blurted, gritting his teeth and ramming his fist against the shed. 'You shouldn't have done that –'

'I'm sorry,' stammered Hermione. Her eyes were swimming with tears now – she no longer cared to hold them back. 'I just … I had to –'

'You had to  _what_?' he snarled. 'You didn't have to do anything! Don't you get it? Nothing about this is real!'

'What do you mean?'

'This – us'– he gestured between them –'it's not real, okay? It's just a fucking illusion! A silly dream –'

'How can you say that?' sniffed Hermione, tears running down her cheeks. 'It's real for me!'

She watched as Leon pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a couple of deep breaths.

'Sorry,' he said eventually. 'I shouldn't have snapped. But please …  _trust me_  … you're in enough danger as it is. Potter said they don't have a pattern, but I still believe that Muggle-borns are the main target – they simply don't care about collateral damage! If I'm not mistaken, you need to keep your head down! You do realise that if they'd seen you with me that day …'

'Leon …'

He flinched, scrunching up his nose.

'Don't … please. Stick to your friends; they're much more capable of pro –'

'If this is about the Patronus Charm –'

'Just trust me, alright?' he pleaded. 'You're safer without me.'

'But what about you?' cried Hermione.

'I'll be fine,' said Leon plainly. 'They don't need me per se, but they might come back to me for another message. And should they decide they need to prove a point again …'

He averted his gaze, now sombrely staring at his clenched fists.

'So this is it?' asked Hermione, almost inaudibly. Leon showed no reaction at first, and she began to wonder whether he had heard her … till he levelled eyes with hers; pain etched across his face.

'This is it.'

He held her gaze for one last moment before turning on the spot and walking off into the forest. When a loud  _crack_ indicated his departure, Hermione had already sunk to the frost-covered ground, once more succumbing to her tears.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'You're drowning it, sweetheart.'

'Hm?'

Hermione blinked and looked into her mother's concerned face.

'Your croissant,' said Helen, cocking her chin towards the bowl in front of Hermione. The pastry she had been dunking into her coffee had all but dissolved, buttery flakes floating atop the frothy milk.

'Oh,' was all she managed, ineffectually rescuing the croissant from its inevitable fate.

The temporary emotional high which she had been riding during the short time dating Leon had quickly turned into a downward spiral. Her parents claimed that the trip to Paris was just what she needed to take her mind off things, but five days in, their assumption still hadn't proved itself true. Thankfully, they didn't complain about her mood, nor did they try to convince her to quit moping around. However, that didn't mean they weren't trying to cheer her up.

'Remember how excited you were when you told us about that'– Robert Granger leaned forward and continued in a whisper –'magical painting at the Louvre?'

Of course she remembered. She had read about it in  _Magical Art in Muggle History_   _and Culture_. Supposedly, there was a certain painting – a moving one, mind you – displayed in the world famous art gallery, and Hermione wanted to see it desperately. Muggles had no idea, of course, that  _Gabrielle d'Estrées and One of Her Sisters_  was once painted by a witch who had attended an art school in sixteenth century France, using Polyjuice Potion to pose as a man. Ironically enough – according to rumours at the time – the depicted Gabrielle was said to have connections to witches.

'Well then, today's the day,' said her father. 'We can go look for that painting and see whether it truly is moving.'

'I don't know if it's that simple, Dad,' said Hermione. 'It's not like it's moving when there are non-magical people around. Only the presence of witches and wizards triggers the spell and even then – the book said it's just a tiny little detail in the background, barely visible. But yes, I intend to find out.'

Hermione took a bite out of her soggy croissant and was rewarded with a loving smile. 'See?' her father said. 'I knew this would lift your spirits. You've always been thirsty for knowledge, just like your mother.'

Six hours later and an estimated ten pounds lighter – what with wandering about the Louvre and standing in front of paintings for hours on end – Hermione found herself staring at the picture showing Gabrielle d'Estrées, sitting in a bathtub with her sister, who was pinching Gabrielle's right nipple. An odd scene as it was, yet Hermione's eyes were perusing the background.

'So?' she heard her father ask; Helen and Robert Granger were peering over her shoulder.

'Nothing yet.'

Hermione squinted her eyes, glueing them to the painting … waiting for it to move – and then  _willing_ it to move.

'Oh, look,' she exclaimed as quietly as she could manage, pointing at the little mirror in the background. A face had popped up within it, the face of a woman; she was looking back at her, nodding her head and disappearing again.

'Did you see that?' said Hermione excitedly; she couldn't believe she'd just witnessed something art critics around the entire world would have killed for. 'That must have been her! The artist! And it's not a mirror there on that wall – it's an empty frame!'

'I saw her, too!' said her mother, pulling Hermione into a gentle side hug. 'Truly fascinating … you know, magic never ceases to amaze me.'

'You do realise you can't tell anyone, don't you?' said Hermione sternly. 'Not even Grandma.'

'Of course we do, sweetheart,' said her father. 'Now – I still want to see the  _Mona Lisa_! Hopefully, we can catch a glimpse of her this time. Come on, let's take the stairs.'

Just as Hermione was about to follow her parents to the exit, she suddenly froze in her steps. There was something in the corner of her eye that caught her attention. She turned around warily, gaze wandering about the hall and ultimately falling onto a tall man with wavy, dirty blond hair …

He was standing a good few metres away from her, leaning his weight onto his left leg and intently examining the painting in front of him. There was no mistake.

'Leon?' called Hermione, brows knitting together in confusion. What was he doing here? And what in Godric's name was up with his clothes? She would have never expected to see the ever well-dressed reporter in slightly flared corduroy trousers and what appeared to be a linen shirt, complete with leather bracelets.

Seeing as he didn't turn around upon her calling his name, Hermione assumed he must have overheard her; puzzled by his curious presence, she walked up to him and tapped his shoulder.

'Leon? What are you doing here?'

' _Hein_?'

He turned around, meeting her gaze, but something about the way he looked at her was different. His blue eyes were kind but reserved, eyebrows raised in confusion ever so slightly, and Hermione realised: he didn't recognise her.

'Can I 'elp you wiz somezing?'

And then, all of a sudden, Hermione understood very well what Leon – or whatever his name was – had meant when he'd said that nothing about them was real; he had been talking about  _himself_.

_"This – us – it's not real, okay? It's just a fucking illusion! A silly dream …"_

His voice … this stranger's voice reverberated in Hermione's head, torturing her with the truth: the ugly, white-hot truth scorching her chest. When she had thought her world had crumbled before, it was nothing compared to how she felt now.


	10. Potions and Priorities

— CHAPTER TEN —

_**Potions and Priorities** _

_I wish to see number twelve, Grimmauld Place._

No sooner had Hermione formed the thought than a green door appeared between numbers eleven and thirteen, along with white brick walls pushing the adjacent houses apart and revealing windows trimmed with matching emerald frames. The small front garden lining the stone steps leading up the door was entirely untouched by the thin layer of snow which had fallen during the day. Normally, so little snow would have thawed quickly in the city; Hermione suspected the Dementor menace was responsible for the overall colder than usual winter.

The decision to pay her friend a visit had taken shape on the flight back to London that morning. After the initial shock of discovering that "Leon" was but a cover for somebody else and the feeling of betrayal that ensued, an entirely different emotion – or rather, demeanour – had come in its place: resolve.

Yes, Hermione had all but collapsed at the Louvre, her parents coming to the rescue and giving out their comforts. Yes, Hermione was livid because of being deceived; the ire, at the very least, was healthier than the constant heartache she had suffered the week before the startling discovery. Even mortification dug its way into Hermione's emotions; for all she knew, "Leon" could be  _anyone_. And she had opened up to him … fallen for him. Snogged him even! It sounded so odd in her head, to think of "Leon" with the awareness that it wasn't his real name. He became this phantom, a fantasy; just like he'd hinted at back at Padma's spiritual funeral.

And still, despite the current trials and tribulations, there was something that Hermione had regained control over and was determined not to let go of again so soon: her brains.

If there was one thing Hermione Granger was exceedingly good at, it was logic. Deduction.  _Thinking_. She had spent the entire flight back reflecting the situation, ultimately opting to investigate. What was one impostor compared to dangerous puzzles, lethal monsters, werewolves, unregistered Animagi, Hallows, and Horcruxes? She would find out who he was, and Hermione wasn't one to go about solving a mystery in a haphazard fashion; no, she had come up with a plan.

That's where Harry came into play.

The silver snake once decking the entrance to the Black family's residence had been replaced with a simple golden doorknocker. Hermione rapped it twice against the wood, shortly hearing a soft  _pop_ from inside before the door swung open.

'Miss Hermione, what a surprise,' croaked Kreacher, bowing and gesturing for her to enter.

'Hello, Kreacher,' said Hermione, 'I came to speak to Harry. Is he around?'

Instead of answering, the old elf only cackled, disappearing with a  _crack_. Moments later, Hermione could hear muffled voices through the ceiling, then some bustling noises and ultimately, the thud of footsteps scurrying down the staircase.

'Hermione,' said Harry, surprise flashing across his features and still fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt, which he – evidently – had only just put on. It was turned inside out, and Hermione noticed that his glasses were slightly askew. She tried to stifle a knowing grin but failed. In spite of her current emotional state, she couldn't help but be mightily amused over her friend's telltale appearance.

'What?' he questioned.

'Nothing,' said Hermione, pursing her lips and humming amusedly. 'Where's Ginny?'

Harry coughed into his fist, apparently trying to hide the smirk that was tugging at his lips.

'Your glasses, Harry.'

'Er …' He straightened them up, blushing.

'I hope this isn't a bad time.'

Harry cleared his throat again, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of scarlet.

'Let's just say that … um … your timing is impeccable.'

'Splendid,' said Hermione, wilfully ignoring his slight discomfort in view of said timing. 'Do you have a moment, then?' she added, already taking off her cloak and hanging it on the coat rack; she wouldn't take no for an answer anyway.

'Yeah … come, let's sit in the kitchen,' said Harry, leading the way. 'Do you want something to drink? We still have some leftover treacle tart, also.'

'A hot chocolate would be nice if it's not too much trouble – and yes, treacle tart sounds lovely.'

Hermione revelled in the moment, feeling strangely happy. Somehow, her friend's adorable bashfulness managed to lift her spirits profoundly.

'How was Paris?'

'Mind-boggling,' answered Hermione candidly and took a seat at the long table, watching as Harry ambled towards the kitchen unit. He reached for his back pocket in a habitual motion but found only his jeans.

'Ugh, my wand's upstairs,' he muttered.

'Allow me,' said Hermione, brandishing hers and Magicking several kitchen tools into moving.

'Thanks,' said Harry, slumping onto the bench. He was all eyes as Hermione conducted the utensil orchestra; a knife cutting the tart into two slices, then Levitating them onto brass plates, while a cooking spoon was stirring milk in a saucepan.

'I keep forgetting how good you are at this,' her friend said in awe as soon as his favourite dessert and a mug full of hot chocolate slid across the table, coming to a halt right in front of him.

'I hope the chocolate's any good,' said Hermione, blowing onto the hot liquid before taking a sip. She licked her lips. It was delicious indeed – the perfect beverage on a cold winter's day.

'So,' said Harry, scooping a morsel of treacle tart into his mouth, 'wha'cha wanna talk-oo-mee 'bout?'

'Will you ever learn manners?' chided Hermione playfully, not waiting for an answer. 'Like I said, Paris was … mind-boggling. Let's just say I made an interesting discovery.'

'I'm listening.'

'I saw someone at the Louvre … Leon –'

'Leon? What was he doing there?'

'I was getting to that, Harry,' Hermione clicked her tongue. 'Now. The thing is – I  _thought_ I saw Leon. But he only looked like him. He didn't know me, his English wasn't very good … his name's Martin … and he's a Muggle.'

'Hang on – are you saying …?'

'If he doesn't have a long-lost Squib twin, Leon is not who he says he is, yes,' said Hermione. 'That Martin bloke, he's the real deal.  _Leon_ '– she put the name in air quotes –'is just a cover. Whoever it is is using –'

'Polyjuice Potion …'

'Exactly.'

'Unbelievable,' said Harry, brow furrowed. 'But … why? And who?'

'That's what I intend to find out,' said Hermione, taking another sip from her mug.

'I take it you already have a plan then?' smirked Harry.

'I do,' confirmed Hermione. 'It's not very good, I'm afraid, but the only one I have since I don't know where he lives. I want to wait outside the  _Daily Prophet_ 's office every day at lunchtime. He'll have to come out sooner or later – and then I'll follow him.'

'A stake-out then.'

'Precisely. So … I was wondering'– Hermione scratched her nose –'could I borrow the Invisibility Cloak, maybe?'

'Why am I not surprised?' chuckled Harry, shoving another forkful of tart into his mouth.

'Well, what do you say?'

Harry pointed at his jaw, still chewing and doing a little "hold-on-a-second"-dance with his head. When he swallowed at last, he said, 'You know, I need the Cloak for my job …'

'But,' pouted Hermione, 'are you not in the least curious?'

'Of course, I am – oh, stop looking at me like that! Ginny does that, too, it's unfair … alright fine, you can have it!' He raised his arms in resignation.

'Brilliant,' said Hermione complacently. 'If you need it back, just say the word.'

'Deal,' said Harry. Reaching for his mug, he added, 'I don't want to be rude, Hermione, but don't you think there are more important things going on right now than that mission of yours?'

Hermione didn't answer right away. She crossed her arms and huffed, averting her gaze and knowing all too well that Harry was right. News of further attacks was popping up almost every day. On top of that, she wasn't even sure what she was hoping for should she eventually find out his true identity. That bridge, she said to herself, she'd cross once she got there.

'I know what you're saying, Harry,' Hermione said after a while. 'But … you know, it's rather ironic that  _he_ was the one who said it – anyway, he once told me that we can't change our lives entirely just because of the current situation. Yes, we need to be more vigilant, and we need to prepare. But that doesn't mean our world stops spinning all of a sudden. Ginny will keep playing; the league has not been cancelled. Neville will keep studying, and Hannah won't be dropping out of her Healer training. Ron and George will not close their shop – remember when he and Fred refused to do so during the War? It's basically the same situation now. And I, for one, am not going to hide at home with my tail between my legs.'

'I know, but –'

'Look,' interjected Hermione, levelling her gaze with his bright green eyes, 'I have thought about this a lot, trust me. I was happy around him. I don't know who he is, but I cannot deny that I … that I like him. And not just the cover, but him as a person … and now that I know about the whole double identity affair, I can't shake the feeling that he ended things because of it. At least I hope so, which would mean that the door might not be closed after all … and if there's even the slightest chance of him and I … I at least want to try. I  _need_ to know the truth, don't you understand?'

'Course I understand, Hermione,' yielded Harry. 'I'm the last person who would tell you not to quench your curiosity – everything else would be a clear case of double standards. It's just that I'm worried. What if he's dangerous?'

'I highly doubt that,' chuckled Hermione. 'No … I know what I felt when he kissed me. Whatever his reasons, they're not ill-natured.'

'Fair enough,' said Harry. 'Promise me you'll at least be careful when you're on your stake-out?'

'I promise.'

'The Cloak doesn't protect you from Dementors.'

'I know –'

'And if you ever need some more Patronus practice, I'll be helping Hagrid next weekend – you could join us.'

'Join who?' yawned a familiar voice behind Hermione. Ginny shuffled into the kitchen, clad in a bathrobe and fluffy slippers, a towel wound about her head.

'Hey Ginny,' greeted Hermione.

'To what do we owe the honour?' asked the redhead, dropping onto the bench next to her.

'It's a long story,' said Hermione.

'Oh, well then, if that's the case, don't bother. Seriously, Hermione, of all the lame excuses, you picked the lamest! You're not getting off that easy … do I smell hot chocolate?'

She snagged Harry's mug and swigged down the rest of his drink, licking her lips and shooting her fiancé a suggestive look.

'I had better be going,' said Hermione, clearing her throat and rising from her seat. 'Where do you keep the Cloak, Harry?'

Her friend scrunched up his nose and Hermione could practically see the cogs whirring in his head.

'Cloak?' queried Ginny, treating herself to the remainder of Hermione's abandoned treacle tart.

'I'll tell you later,' said Harry. Directing his attention back to Hermione, he added, 'I think it's upstairs. Let me grab it for you.'

'Not necessary,' Hermione smiled, drawing her wand. ' _Accio_  Invisibility Cloak.'

'Good thinking.'

'Will one of you  _please_  tell me what's going on?'

'Harry will, right Harry?' said Hermione, as soon as a shimmering bolt of cloth zoomed through the door, landing in her outstretched hand. 'Thanks again'– she stuffed the Cloak into her bag –'I'll see you two around. Say hi to Hagrid from me, will you? And don't tell anyone else about this!'

'Gotcha. See you – and good luck on your mission!'

' _Mission_?'

Hermione tilted her head back and laughed, leaving the newly engaged couple behind and opting for the exit. As she wrapped her scarf around her neck, she could still hear her friends talk excitedly, albeit not being able to make out the words, except for a loud and incredulous "no way" from Ginny.

No way, indeed. There was absolutely  _no way_  Hermione was going to let the reporter off easy – whoever he was.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Two days passed without any result. Witches and wizards would constantly come in and out of the editorial office during lunch hour, but her target was never one of them. Even though she knew that he didn't usually walk to or from work, he was bound to show his face – his false face – at some time or another. For lunch, for errands … for  _something_.

Wednesday went by, equally uneventful. On Thursday, Hermione's patience began to waver.

 _Come on_ , she thought, nibbling her egg salad sandwich underneath the Cloak while staring at that wretched door. If only she had a little bit more luck …

Luck! That was it! Why hadn't she thought of it sooner? Hermione wolfed down the rest of her lunch and – after making sure no one was watching – took off the Invisibility Cloak, cramming it into her beaded handbag. Felix Felicis was one of the most expensive potions in the world, yet Hermione couldn't care less about money at that moment; she had long given her mission highest priority, and losing a small fortune would certainly not deter her from seeking the favour of such.

Fifteen minutes later and a month's rent worth of Galleons lighter, Hermione stepped out of the Slug & Jiggers Apothecary, a small phial in hand. The mid-day sun made a beautiful prism dance within the golden fluid, the obtainment of which had moreover required filling out a tedious form as to pledge she would not be misusing the powerful potion in any law-infringing way.

 _Bottoms up_ , she thought, bringing the Liquid Luck to her lips. It tasted of nothing. After a few short moments, however, Hermione began to feel waves of exhilaration rush through her, as well as an infinite amount of confidence inflating her chest. She swung the Cloak over her head and set off, not back to where she had come from, but to the left and towards the North Side of Diagon Alley – Felix making the decision on her behalf.

Despite being invisible, she had no trouble dodging all the bustling witches and wizards; they seemed to move out of her way as soon as she came near them, hence strongly reminding Hermione of the notoriously nauseating Knight Bus. Without anyone slowing her down, it didn't take her long to reach her destination.

Gringotts Wizarding Bank stood tall and awe-inspiring, its snow-white marble front reflecting the light and forcing Hermione to squint her eyes. She ascended the stairs taking two steps at once, feeling lighter than she had in what felt like years. Once inside the entrance hall (she simply slipped past an elderly witch on her way into the bank), Hermione settled herself next to a pillar and waited confidently; she was in an uncannily good mood. One minute ticked by, then another. And another.

 _Any moment now_  …

And there he was: the impostor – tall, blond, and (as opposed to Martin, the Muggle) well-dressed. Despite her knowing that his looks were merely a facade, he still made her heart flutter. Once he'd pushed open the bronze doors, he strode towards the silver ones opposite them; Hermione quickly casting a non-verbal Silencing Charm on herself and following him into the main hall.

To her surprise, her target didn't head for one of the many counters, but turned right towards an inconspicuous door Hermione hadn't regarded in many years; the sign on it read "Monetary Authority Office: Foreign, Ludicrous, and Muggle Currency, Treasures, Gold Rates". Eleven years ago, this was where Hermione had obtained her first wizarding money in exchange for her savings and a large sum from her parents – now a reminder of how quickly time seemed to pass.

She swiftly cut the distance between her and the blond, effortlessly sneaking past him and into the room, the potion thankfully providing her with formidable spying skills she would've never otherwise possessed.

'Ah, look who's come to grace me with his presence.'

Hermione's gaze fell onto the familiar wizard sat behind a desk in the back of the office. Theodore Nott worked for Gringotts these days? Interesting.

'Sherman,' greeted the impostor with a nod.

 _Sherman?_ How peculiar.

'Sod off,' said Nott, grinning.

'Charming as ever, I see,' said the blond, walking up to Nott and setting his briefcase onto the desk. He flicked open the release and pulled out a bag which, judging by the  _jingle-jangle_  it made, was filled with gold.

'If you would do me the favour …'

'Gladly, as always,' said Nott, taking the money bag and placing it beside his chair. 'So,' he drawled, 'how's your week been?'

'Don't ask.' The man whose name was  _not_ Leon stifled a yawn, rubbing his neck. 'I think I'm going mental.'

'Why, because of …?'

Hermione took a couple of steps towards the desk as to be able to see the impostor's face. The face that she had thought was real. Those eyes that used to look at her as though she were the most fascinating thing in the world. Those lips that she had dreamt of kissing so many times … those bloody enticing lips that had kissed her back …

She felt her chest constrict and forced herself to observe, not feel, lest she tear up right then and there. Luckily, the effect of the Felix Felicis helped suppress the unwelcome emotions.

'Yeah,' said "Leon" bleakly, a scowl scrunching up his features. 'And needless to say, there's mayhem at the office, my workload has doubled ever since … you know – being short of staff and all. Besides, we're practically getting flooded with reports of new attacks and sightings. I barely have time for anything else … and then there's my mother, inviting me over for tea! And I can't even tell her  _why_  I have to refuse.'

_His mother?_

Hermione's heart pounded hard with anticipation. Just a few more clues …

'Tough luck, mate,' said Nott, clicking his tongue. 'Oh, and in case you care to ask how I'm doing: I asked Tracey out yesterday. We're going out for dinner tomorrow.'

'Really? Good on you, mate!'

'I know, right?' grinned Nott. 'Well then – want to grab something to eat?'

'Sure, why not?' said the blond. 'But I'll have to go change first.'

'Fair enough. I'll make the deposit … you go get  _changed_. Wouldn't want you to feel uncomfortable in your own skin.' Nott winked knowingly. 'What do you want to eat?'

'I don't know – Chinese maybe?'

'So in Muggle London?' asked Nott. 'Alright. But you'll have to pay. I'll just take some of this'– he pointed at the money bag –'and give you a few paper scraps in return. Shall we meet at the Cauldron in … let's say, fifteen minutes?'

'Make that half an hour,' said the impostor, upon which the former Slytherin nodded affirmatively.

They bid each other goodbye, and "Leon" turned around to leave the office, Hermione on his heels. She kept a safe distance when she followed him out of Gringotts and through the streets of wizarding London.

Her throat had gone dry, knowing it was only minutes until she would uncover his identity. She already had several clues: he was friends with Theodore Nott and hence most likely another Hogwarts graduate from their year, probably from Slytherin; his mother was alive and in touch, but she didn't know of his secret, nor of his occupation; he liked Chinese food. Granted, the latter wasn't paramount to the deduction, but Hermione wasn't one to ignore details when it came to investigative work.

She also recalled the past month – the many strange encounters, the dreams … a premonition was dawning on her, but Felix made any worry disintegrate into thin air, urging her to keep going until the puzzle was positively and one-hundred per cent solved. Although, even without the potion, Hermione wouldn't have dared to put that hunch into words. It was too … bizarre.

The reporter's steps suddenly slowed down, Hermione's pulse picking up pace in response – this was it. He cast a wary glance over his shoulder while pulling a bunch of keys from his pockets, blue eyes looking right through her. After shooting another look into the opposite direction, he seemed to decide it was safe to enter his house, so he unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

_Godric give me strength._

Hermione's palms were sweaty when she walked up to the black door, scanning it for a name.

And there it was.

She gulped, eyes hazy as if paralysed. They were just letters – seven wretched letters. Harmless. Innocent. Her breaths became quicker and Hermione all but hyperventilated. Delicately engraved in a small, silver sign was the name her gut had been screaming for the past fifteen minutes; a voice she had chosen to ignore because the moment she would have allowed the thought to take shape inside her head, it would've become real. Dangerously, dizzyingly real.

D. Malfoy.

_Go. Leave. Go home._

Malfoy.  _Draco_  Malfoy? Was there any other Malfoy whose given name started with the letter "D"? Unlikely.

_Go home already!_

If only she'd purchased a Calming Draught along with the Liquid Luck! She kept some in her home remedy kit – yes, that was precisely what she needed. Hermione retreated gingerly, eyes still glued to his name when she pivoted on the spot, Apparating into her flat.

Draco Malfoy.

She should have known, should have noticed – maybe her subconscious had. All of a sudden, everything fell into place: his haughty mannerisms that more than once had seemed so oddly familiar; his aloofness as "Leon"; his flirting with her at the Ministry. He'd even called her "Granger" once, on the night of their first date. She had been drunk, and the memory hence shoved back into the rear of her mind, but she could still hear him say it – as well as his excuse for the slip-up:

_"I think it suits you."_

Merlin's beard, she  _seriously_  required something to calm her nerves. Hermione Summoned a bottle of the much-needed potion, unstopping it and gulping down its contents all at once before letting herself fall onto the sofa; Crookshanks joined her presently, curling up into a ball on her lap. The potion tasted of eucalyptus and oranges, instantly causing her muscles to relax and her breath to steady. It also came with a strange, brain-numbing sensation that Hermione could have gladly done without, but it was still better than the sheer and utter panic which had begun to gain control over her body.

 _I kissed Draco sodding Malfoy_.

And he'd kissed her back. Hermione stared vacantly at the fireplace, absentmindedly scratching Crookshanks behind the ears and recalling the last time she'd seen … Draco – Godric, replacing the cover name with his own felt tremendously disconcerting. Had he tried to tell her the truth back at the Patils' house?

Heat was rushing to her face – all the things she had told him! She'd been tipsy around him, flirty … and she'd tried to kiss him on more than one occasion!  _Him_  of all people – her childhood bully. The man who, as a boy, had called her terrible names, hexed her, wished her dead even; who had plotted to have Buckbeak killed – Hermione suddenly recalled his shocked reaction upon learning that the Hippogriff was very much alive … why hadn't she seen it sooner?

 _Think_ , she told herself.  _Think, don't brood_.

Easier said than done, but her inner voice was right: aimless brooding didn't lead anywhere. She needed to focus on what she was going to do about all this; she wouldn't just go and forget about it, oh no. Hermione was in far too deep for that.

Draco Malfoy might be the man who, as a boy and teenager, had made all the wrong choices; he'd said so himself. But, above all, he was also the one who had stepped in at the right moment and thus saved her from that bloody creep, Nathan. The one who had come up with the idea of sponsoring her work – now that Hermione thought about it, probably not exactly because of his sudden (and most likely alleged) interest in house-elf rights.

_Well played, Malfoy._

Hermione couldn't help the smile that was now tugging at her lips. He was good … he had played his role to perfection, mindful of even the minutest details; his heritage, his school career … the only thing he hadn't taken into account was the chance – small as it may be – of somebody running into the Muggle whose looks he copied. That, and the trouble that would arise from going out with one of his former adversaries …

Oh, she would show him just how good of an opponent she could be; especially seeing as she'd have the upper hand this time. Hermione frowned at that thought. Was she just seriously considering to seek him out and turn the tables? Play a little cat-and-mouse? If yes – to what end?

_You know exactly what end._

Madness. This was madness. She must be going mental. Was Felix still working? Did the Felix Felicis and the Calming Draught have any madness-inducing drug interactions she didn't know about?

She should be cross with him for deceiving her; furious even. And yet, she couldn't – her initial anger had all but dissipated. Draco Malfoy wouldn't just assume another identity for no reason or, even more unlikely, for the sole purpose of tricking Hermione. No, that'd be utterly ridiculous. Besides, that whole act must have been going on for much longer than their brief working relationship.

He would have to answer many a question, that much was sure! Here she was, contemplating her relationship with the man who had once called her Mudblood. Hermione couldn't help but snort in a mix of disbelief and fondness. What with her recent encounters with Draco, both as himself and in disguise, the memories of him in their schooldays became more and more surreal. Hermione had to admit to herself that the prospect of seeing Draco again felt perilously compelling, alluring even. Hadn't she only recently claimed to like the man, whoever he might be? Now was her chance to give points to her words.

_Oh … wait until you tell Harry!_

A stirring in her lap ripped Hermione from her thoughts.

'What is it, Crooks?'

The ginger cat was clawing at her robes and, once he had her attention, stared at the clock hanging on the opposite wall.

'Blimey,' she muttered, heaving herself out of the upholstery and to her feet. 'Thanks for reminding me.'

Hermione had completely forgotten about going back to work after her lunchtime stake-out. She quickly stepped up to the mantlepiece, grabbing a handful of Floo powder and throwing it into the weakly glowing embers which instantly blazed up in a virulent green. As the lukewarm flames licked at her, Hermione felt her resolve solidify and her grin spread wide in response:

Draco Malfoy had dealt the cards – and play, she would.


	11. An Unexpected Turn

— CHAPTER ELEVEN —

_**An Unexpected Turn** _

It was a particularly chilly day when Draco stepped out into the Manor gardens; the air was biting cold and the soil frozen – a perfect day for flying. Shouldering his broom with one hand and holding his wand aloft with the other, he trudged towards his family's very own Quidditch pitch at the edge of the vast grounds, the chest containing his equipment Levitating in front of him.

He hadn't wanted to come, initially. Visiting the Manor wasn't something he was keen on doing, yet Theo had all but coerced him into accepting his mother's invitation, arguing that he was in dire need of a break. Draco had then claimed that tea with his parents was hardly a break, but was convinced when Theo pointed out that it was the perfect opportunity to try out his new Nimbus Cloudburst, which had been lying around untouched in his closet, collecting cobwebs ever since he'd got it for Christmas.

Draco loved flying. He always had. His mother would claim that he learnt how to hold his balance on a broomstick before being able to walk; his father would claim that losing to Potter – who had never ridden a broom before in his life – was a disgrace to their name.

As the giant hoops towering the pitch drew closer and closer, Draco felt a thrill of anticipation run through his veins. He hadn't flown in what seemed like forever, what with being fully immersed in work ever since he'd begun writing for the  _Prophet_ , not to mention his recent involvement with a certain bushy haired witch. The thought of Granger made his stomach turn. He hadn't seen her in two weeks, ever since their breakup. Ever since their kiss …

That beautiful, wretched kiss – all that he'd wanted and all that he'd dreaded. She'd tasted marvellous. Her scent, her touch, it had made Draco want never to let go of her again. He'd never forget what it felt like to lose himself in her arms for that one blissful moment. And yet … it was somebody else she wanted. It was somebody else's skin she'd touched, and Draco knew it made a difference; it was as though his lips had been numb ever so slightly. Or as if they'd kissed through a thin layer of cloth. He had felt it, and maybe Granger had, too, seeing as she'd tensed up – the wake-up call that made him pull away.

Draco shook his head in an attempt to rid himself of the memory; now was not the time to pine and ponder. Unfortunately, forcing oneself to stop feeling never worked. Physical distraction, however, could do wonders for the psyche. Draco lowered his wand, setting the chest onto the field and opening it with a flick. He'd start by Magicking one Bludger into following him while he'd score some goals as a warm-up.

As soon as Draco mounted the broom and kicked himself off the frozen ground, he felt all his worries dissipate. The cold air tousled his hair and lashed at his jumper as Draco rose higher, the Quaffle wedged under his arm. He could tell right away that the Nimbus Cloudburst was in no way inferior to the Firebolt Six or the Comet Millennium Beam, answering to the subtlest movements and thus giving Draco the illusion of steering with his mere thoughts.

The Bludger soon had Draco all swept up in the exercise. There was no fibre in him which could think about anything else but being airborne – dodging the enchanted ball while flying around the goalposts, throwing the Quaffle through one of the hoops before scooping it up in mid-air and repeating the drill. Each and every one of his muscles was stretched and Draco revelled in the exertion; keeping the balance required body tension, even more so when performing the Sloth Grip Roll and other manoeuvres where the flier hung upside down.

When he deemed himself well warmed up, he shot to the ground, the Bludger on his tail, only to yank up the broom handle at the very last moment and spin upwards again, whereupon the Bludger collided with the frozen ground. Draco grinned to himself – the Wronski Feint apparently didn't solely work on humans. He drew his wand, lifting the enchantment on the pesky ball; with another swish, he opened the little latch in the chest, watching as a blur of gold escaped into the cold.

'Hello, old friend …' smirked Draco, tossing the Quaffle onto the ground, eyes glued to the tiny winged ball. He gave it a head start before spiralling up, soaring much higher than before and scanning the field for the Snitch. From up there, he was able to overlook the vast grounds in their entirety, including the Manor itself. Curious, how a simple thing as being up on a broom made Draco all but indifferent towards the place; at that moment, he didn't care that he was back where he'd witnessed countless men and women being tortured, maimed, and killed. All he felt was excitement.

Draco chased the Snitch for over an hour without noticing it. He caught it four times, only to release and hunt it all over again. It was soon getting dark, and Draco decided that the fifth time would be the charm; he'd catch it once more and then pack up and leave.

'There you are …'

The little ball was hovering a few feet above the treetops of the abutting forest stretching farther than the eye could see. Draco dove swiftly, fixating his attention to the Snitch that was now moving again, away from him and away from the grounds. Draco chased it for a couple of minutes, but strangely, he did not gain upon it.

'Come on …'

He had troubles making out the Snitch now; it was but a blurry mess amid a misty shroud, which was soon enveloping the woodlands. Draco's fingers began to feel cold despite his gloves, and staying airborne became much more difficult now that his limbs felt as if they were made of lead …

The realisation hit him hard.

'Fuck,' he muttered, whipping his broom around and dashing back towards the pitch, cutting the air so fast that he could have sworn it was flogging his skin.

_No … please … not here._

The fog was so dense now that Draco couldn't see past the tip of his broom handle, accidentally dropping too low and scraping by a fir tree, the branches of which tore open his trousers and scratched his leg. It stung, but he didn't care. All he knew was that he needed to reach the grounds, and quickly. He rose a little higher and focused on nothing but his destination.

'C'mon,' he spurred the broom on, 'Faster …'

Draco didn't see them, but he could sense their presence nonetheless. The biting cold was no longer only tugging at his clothes – it was piercing him, clutching his chest and almost making him choke. Visions were forming before his eyes … images of a curly haired girl, lying on the ground, brown eyes imploring his … Padma, crying for her mother and sister … Rowle, screaming, convulsing on the dining room floor … Vincent, falling into the flames … Professor Burbage, devoured whole …

 _Think of something happy_ , he forced himself. Draco tried to picture her smile, recall her scent … closing his eyes and losing himself was tempting, but he had to see where he was going – prising them open he did the only thing that he was still capable of: reiterating her name like a mantra and holding onto it for his life.

_Hermione, Hermione, Hermione …_

And there it was: the pitch. Draco could make out the six large goalposts, weakly glimmering behind the veil of mist. As soon as he shot past them, a subtle, warm gush indicated his passing the grounds' wards. Hopefully, they were strong enough.

Draco reached the Manor in next to no time, dismounting the broom and entering the estate through two massive double doors facing the terrace. He didn't care that he left a trail of dirt behind, nor did he mind the loud thuds of his footsteps.

'Draco?' he heard his mother's voice, coming from the conservatory. She poked her head out of the door, spotting him and his dishevelled appearance. 'Draco! What happened?'

Narcissa strode towards him with all the grace she could muster, clearly resisting the urge to gather her skirts and run; the woman would never lose her poise.

'Mother,' said Draco, still clutching his Nimbus Cloudburst, 'How strong are the wards?'

'Wards?' echoed Narcissa. 'Draco, what are you talking about?'

'Dementors,' he replied. 'Lots of them.'

His mother's eyes went wide.

'Here? On our grounds? That's impossible!'

Draco shook his head.

'No, not on the grounds. They're roaming the forests. Now, are the wards strong enough?'

'Without a doubt,' drawled a third voice from behind Narcissa – Lucius Malfoy was strutting towards them. 'What happened to you?' He squinted his eyes and regarded Draco intently.

'Dementors,' repeated Draco curtly.

'Dementors …' echoed his father in a condescending tone. 'Clearly, you can be a little bit more specific?'

Draco closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath.

_Don't get upset. It's not worth it._

'I chased the Snitch past the grounds, and I found myself surrounded by them,' he explained. 'I didn't see anything, but I am certain they were there. I felt it.'

'You …  _felt_ it? That doesn't mean anything, now does it?'

'I am perfectly capable of telling the presence of Dementors,  _Father_ ,' said Draco, squinting his eyes in response and furrowing his brow.

'What makes you think you possess the expertise all of a sudden?'

'Lucius …' interjected Narcissa, appeasingly placing her hand on his forearm.

'No, Mother, it's fine,' said Draco, still not breaking eye-contact with his father. 'I suppose with a heart as cold as yours – you wouldn't feel their presence even if they were right in front of your face.'

'Draco, that's enough!' cried his mother, looking first at him, then at her husband. 'Stop it, both of you!'

Draco and Lucius only stared at each other, clenching their teeth; neither of them said another word.

'Now, Draco,' began Narcissa, breaking the silence, 'you didn't see them?'

'No. They were right there, though.'

'So you didn't fight them?' she asked, upon which Draco shook his head.

'No. But … it's not like I can cast a sodding Patronus –'

'Language, Draco!'

'… thanks to  _this_ ,' he continued, ignoring his mother's rebuke, as always. He cocked his head towards his left arm. 'So I just flew back as fast as I could.'

'Dementors … right on our doorstep,' whispered Narcissa, clutching her chest. 'And neither of us can produce a Patronus …'

'Even if I did, I could hardly do anything without a wand, can I?' said Lucius through gritted teeth. Draco withheld a comment on how he had brought that particular sanction to himself.

'I heard the Ministry offer a protection service for those who can't,' said his mother, but Lucius only huffed derisively.

'I am not going begging for help,' he said. 'I still have some dignity.'

Draco stifled another comment.

'Are you saying you'll put dignity over your life?'

'I'm saying that I will be waiting this out. No use for me to get out there. This house is among the safest places on earth, just as unplottable as your late aunt's … although I assume it's Potter's now. If Draco hadn't been so careless as to leave the grounds …'

His father sneered at him, and Draco responded with an equally intimidating look; he'd clearly learnt from the best. Just as his mother opened her mouth to reprimand them again, a  _pop_ indicated the arrival of a house-elf.

'A message for young Master Draco,' he croaked, holding a letter aloft. Draco put down his broom and took it gingerly, muttering his thanks before the elf disappeared again. Who would write him on a Sunday, except for Theo and his mother? He turned the envelope around and swallowed hard, eyes growing wide. He knew that handwriting.

'What is it, Draco?' asked is mother softly, but he didn't respond. Draco tore open the envelope and pulled out the letter, directing all of his attention at the delicate hand of Hermione Granger.

_Draco_

_Thanks to your funding, I have made some progress already. Since you seemed so interested in house-elf rights, I thought you might want to meet up and hear about it. Are you free Wednesday afternoon? If it suits you, why don't you come by my office at 4?_

_Awaiting your Owl_

_Hermione_

Draco read over it twice before folding the letter and shoving it back into the envelope with slightly trembling hands. Now  _that_ was certainly unexpected.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Come in.'

Draco turned the doorknob, entering the lion's den and instantly spotting the unmistakable chocolate-coloured mess that was Granger's hair.

'Hello,' she said cordially, smiling at him. Draco only raised an eyebrow in confusion.

'Hello,' he echoed, unsure of how to act towards her. He closed the door behind him and gave the witch the once-over – she was wearing that pencil skirt again, this time paired with a light yellow blouse through which he could subtly see the outline of two black bra straps. Great, now he'd have to concentrate even more so on  _not_  looking at her.

'What's wrong with me this time?' she chuckled.

'What? Nothing,' said Draco, uncomfortably aware that he'd been staring. He cleared his throat, raking his fingers through his hair.

'Don't you want to sit down?'

'Oh, right,' he said, walking up to her desk and taking the familiar seat.

'Do you want a cuppa?' she offered and pointed at the tea tray sitting on a sideboard to her left.

'Yeah … thank you,' he said hoarsely, watching as Granger picked up her wand, swishing it at the tea set.

'Milk, no sugar?'

'Um – yes. How do you know?'

'Lucky guess,' she shrugged, pursing her lips adorably. Draco quickly averted his gaze. Why was she so friendly all of a sudden?

'You know, I would have come by  _your_ office, but you don't have one, do you?' she asked, sitting down.

Draco reached for his cup and took a purposefully long sip of the hot liquid – it never failed to calm his nerves. Placing the cup back onto the saucer, he answered, 'No, I don't. I work at home.'

'Interesting,' said Granger, crossing her legs and nursing her tea. 'And where would that be?'

'Why do you ask?'

'No reason,' she said innocently. 'I was just wondering where Draco Malfoy lives these days, is all.'

'Diagon Alley, if you must know.'

'Oh, me too!'

'It's not that big of a coincidence, Granger,' commented Draco dryly, 'Most of us who work in London live in Diagon Alley.'

'Hang on,' said Granger, knitting her brows, 'You just said you worked at home; you didn't say anything about London.'

_Shit._

'Well, no – I mean – yes, I work at home,' he sputtered, 'But I visit the Ministry often.'

'That I have noticed,' she said, taking another sip and never breaking eye-contact.

 _Wait … did she just wink?_  No, she couldn't have. He must have been imagining it; wishful thinking, that's all.

'You didn't ask me to come by so that we could exchange our addresses, did you?' he asked eventually.

'Of course not! I was just trying to make small talk. Now'– she set her cup back onto the table –'I have started conducting my research for the establishment of wand-bearing rights for house-elves – that is, if you're interested in hearing about where your first payment went.'

'Course I am,' nodded Draco. 'Go on.'

'Alright,' she said, shifting in her seat; Draco had a hard time not following the movements of her legs. 'I happen to know a wandmaker – she's working for the Department of International Magical Cooperation – and she's agreed to help me. I'm paying her, of course. Our first step was to purchase a few regular wands, made for witches and wizards, but give them to house-elves. One of them is Topsy, our house-elf representative here at the Department – you might remember her name from the article – and I've asked McGonagall to enquire in the kitchens whether there are any elves interested in working with us; they're being paid, too. Not too many elves seem to be keen on receiving payment, sadly, but some were indeed intrigued by the premise of performing magic with a wand. Their magic is more powerful than ours, naturally, so they don't need one per se. However, I argue that a lack of necessity does not legitimise an altogether ban of wand-use.'

Draco nodded and hummed his agreement, indicating that he was following her.

'So we set up a room entirely for the purpose of house-elves practising magic with wands. It's fascinating, really. All of their spells are silent, as you probably know, but they're incredibly powerful. We reckoned the wands would have an enhancing effect, but the results so far have been unexpected, to say the least.'

'They're not making the spells stronger?'

Granger shook her head. 'No,' she said, 'Not yet, at least. We have to take into consideration that they are using a wand for the first time, so that may require some getting used to. Only long-time studies will show, I suppose. Furthermore, we plan on initiating the second step: making custom wands for house-elves.'

'I suppose your friend will take care of that? The wandmaker?'

'Ayano, yes,' confirmed Granger. 'She's brilliant. It'll take a while, though. Crafting a wand is a time-consuming business, especially when considering the different parameters of elf-magic as opposed to our magic. She will probably try out different wand-woods and cores because of it.'

'I must say, Granger, I'm impressed,' said Draco, pursing his lips.

'Why, thank you,  _Malfoy_ ,' she smirked. 'Have you ever considered calling me by my given name? Aren't we past the whole last name thing?'

'I don't know, Granger, you tell me,' answered Draco with an equally amused grin. 'Are we past it?'

She only rolled her big, brown eyes in response, crossing her arms and evidently trying to suppress the smile that was tugging at her lips. Draco's gaze momentarily wandered down to her neckline – her arms were pushing up her breasts ever so slightly … had the top buttons of her blouse been open the entire time?

'So, Draco,' said Granger, snapping him out of his temporary trance. 'I was wondering …'

She leaned forward, and Draco forced himself not to break eye-contact, all the more harder when she took a deep breath.

'I think I want to take you up on your offer.'

'Offer?'

'Have you forgotten already?' asked Granger, lips pouting in – most likely – mock offendedness. Merlin, could this woman become any more attractive? Besides, what was she talking about? The only offer he could think of …

_Oh._

'Are you saying,' he began cautiously, raising an eyebrow, 'are you saying you've reconsidered?'

'I have,' she said, flashing him a gentle smile. 'What do you say – dinner on Friday?'

Draco couldn't believe his ears. He must be dreaming. His chest inflated, making space for his ever faster pounding heart.

'Sounds good,' he screwed out at last – speaking was difficult with his throat all tensed up.

'Excellent! There's this place near Piccadilly I thought we could go to, if Muggle London is alright with you.'

'Sure … when shall I pick you up?'

'So you know where I live now?' chortled Granger.

'What? No'– Draco cleared his throat –'I just thought you could tell me, is all.'

'Why don't we just meet outside of the Cauldron, on the Muggle side? It's not far from there.'

'Alright,' nodded Draco. 'Half seven?'

'Sounds good to me.'

She was still smiling, making his insides melt. Draco shoved back his chair and stood, nodding curtly at her and saying, 'See you Friday, then.'

'See ya.'

'And thanks for the tea.'

With that, he turned around and made towards the office door. On his way out, Draco quickly counted the days in his head, the realisation making him dizzy. He had just agreed to go out with Granger – on Valentine's Day.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco was early – unnecessarily early, but then again, upper-class manners had been ingrained in him very early on in his life. "Never make a witch wait" his mother used to say and hence, he wouldn't, cold winter weather and all – thank Merlin for Warming Charms. He might not believe in pure-blood supremacy anymore, but that didn't mean he'd lose his gallantry.

Charing Cross Road was crowded with couples that night, walking hand in hand down the street on the way to their respective date location. Draco felt his pulse quicken with anticipation for his own date. Granger had asked him out –  _him_. It was too good to be true, but here he was, waiting on her in Muggle London on Valentine's Day. He shoved his hand into his coat pocket, fidgeting with the Sneakoscope he'd recently purchased. Unsurprisingly, the demand for the small Dark Detectors had gone through the roof ever since the revelation of the Faceless. The tool wasn't perfectly reliable, but still better than no warning system altogether. Draco had tweaked his a bit, however, making it vibrate instead of whistle in case of any close-by, untrustworthy activity.

At precisely half past seven, the doors to the Leaky Cauldron swung open, revealing  _her_. She was wearing her hair up, neatly braided on the sides and pinned back into a low bun; a few rebellious flyaways escaping the chignon making the look all the more charming. Draco was about to wave in recognition when she spun her head around to look past her shoulder.

'Hope nobody saw me leave,' said Granger as she turned towards him. 'Hi, Draco.'

'Hi, Gr-Hermione,' he muttered, eliciting a smile in response.

'See? It's not so hard, is it?' she winked, snaking an arm through his. 'Shall we?'

She led the way, Draco taking smaller steps in consideration of her petite frame and hence shorter strides. Granger, however, didn't seem to appreciate the gesture.

'How old are you, 80?' she teased, practically pulling him through the streets. 'Come on, chop-chop – I'm starving!'

Draco couldn't resist the smirk; her light-heartedness soothed his nerves immensely. 'It's called manners, Granger, but I don't assume you'd know much about that.'

'Back to Granger, are we, Malfoy?'

'It'll take some getting used to,' he replied candidly – it was indeed strange. As Leon, he'd called her by her given name all the time, however, calling her that as himself still made a difference. Although it definitely helped that it appeared to make her happy.

'Why were you worried someone saw you leave the Cauldron?' he asked. 'I hope not because of me.'

'Well …' drawled Granger, pursing her lips innocently. 'Partly because of you,' she admitted. 'But not for the reasons you think – honestly! I simply don't care for being spotted tonight; anywhere, with anyone. That Skeeter woman will probably be on a look-out for any Valentine's Day gossip she can get her ugly hands on.'

'Right,' nodded Draco. 'That does sound reasonable. I suppose that's why we're out here?' He cocked his head towards the crowds of Muggles scurrying across Leicester Square.

'Hm-hm,' was all he got for a response and Draco decided not to dwell on it.

'You know, it's funny,' she said after a few minutes of walking in silence, 'I thought I'd be spending this day much differently.'

_With "another" man, you mean?_

'Different how?' he asked, feigning ignorance.

'Oh, you know … I was seeing this bloke … no'– she shook her head –'Godric, what am I doing, talking about someone else on a date?' She looked up at him through her dark, long lashes, sniggering. 'A  _date_! Can you believe it? Us on a date?'

'It is strange, isn't it? What will your friends say?'

'Oh, what they don't know won't hurt them.'

'You're not going to tell them?' he asked, although he couldn't pinpoint why it bothered him so much. It wasn't as if he fancied facing the wrath of Potter and Weasley … but, after all, she didn't hesitate to tell everyone about "Leon" right away.

'All in good time,' replied Granger. 'All in good time … oh, here we are!'

She stopped walking abruptly, Draco almost running her over. They stood in front of a white house with two wooden doors and a red sign above, which read "Brasserie Zédel".

'A French place,' observed Draco, feeling slightly giddy.

'Yep.'

'Why French?'

'Why not?' countered Granger. 'But seriously – I love French cuisine. And France. Anything about France, really. Is it not alright with you?'

'Hm? No – no, it's fine,' said Draco absentmindedly. She couldn't possibly know something, could she? No … how could she have found out anyway? He was being careful, after all.

'Do you want to wait until we take root? Come on,' jibed Granger. She had already let go of his arm, pushing against one of the doors.

'Course not,' he mumbled, following the witch inside; a waiter greeted them once they'd entered the venue.

'Good evening. Table for two?'

'Yes, please – we have a reservation, for Granger.'

'Ah, Mrs Granger,' said the Muggle as soon as he'd scanned his list, 'Mr Granger'– he nodded at Draco –'if you would follow me, please.'

Granger snorted into her hand, poking his ribs with her elbow.

'Will you stop laughing?' he said through gritted teeth.

' _Mr Granger_ ,' she tittered, working on her buttons.

'Right, very fun –'

But Draco broke off quickly, instantly forgetting the snarky comment he had on the tip of his tongue. Granger had taken off her coat, revealing a stunning red cocktail dress that made his skin crawl.

'Wow, you,' he cleared his throat, 'you look – you look nice.'

'Thank you,' she smiled at him, taking a seat at the table the waiter had led them to. 'So do you.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

The Brasserie Zédel was a gorgeous place. Marble pillars supported the ceiling, richly ornamented with golden stucco; large mirrors covering each wall and giving the illusion of an endless room, somehow reminding Hermione of the luxurious dining halls as shown in  _Titanic_. It made her wonder …

'Have you ever seen a movie before?' she asked Draco, who was currently enjoying the last bites of his entrecôte – at least Hermione assumed he was enjoying it, judging from his silence.

He finished chewing before answering, 'These Muggle moving-images-things? No.'

'I thought so,' she giggled. 'I can't picture you going to the cinema, to be honest.' When Draco shot her a questioning look, she added, 'It's a place where Muggles go to watch movies on a big screen. But you can also watch them at home, on television; only recently I saw this one film with my mum,  _You've Got Mail_. It's about two people falling for each other, but without knowing it's them – they're practically penpals, you see; he finds out first, and then he tries to make her like him … anyway, it's complicated. And I suppose explaining the concept of chatrooms and e-mail is a bit much for now.'

'Maybe some other time?' suggested Draco with a lopsided smile; the look he gave her was one of endearment. It reminded her vividly of … well … technically speaking, it reminded her of  _him_. Hermione had been dropping allusions to his persona all night. The restaurant in and of itself, her mentioning "that bloke she'd been seeing", and just now a reference to a mistaken identity rom-com. She could have sworn to see him tense up every time. Perhaps she could push it even further …

'This place reminds me of Paris so much,' she said innocently while spooning up what was left of her bouillabaisse. 'Have you ever been there?'

As expected, Draco's brow furrowed ever so slightly. Oh, he was trying so hard not to appear agitated!

'Yes,' he replied cautiously, 'ages ago. My family have roots in France.'

'Do they now?' smirked Hermione.

'On my mother's side.'

'Oh right, she's a Black – "toujours pur".'

'Don't remind me,' said Draco, disgust etching across his features. 'Mental, that's what they were. I can't believe I ever called you –'

'Don't,' interrupted Hermione, wagging her head. 'Don't say it. You don't have to.'

Without wasting a single thought on it, she reached over the table and covered his hand with hers, instantly feeling him relax upon her touch. It was nice – soothing him felt much better, much more gratifying, than irritating him. As his silver eyes met hers, Hermione could tell her cheeks were turning pink; she recalled all the times he had looked at her like that before, the only difference being the colour of his iris. It had always been him, underneath the cover. Never "Leon". "Leon" was just a name, nothing more.

If someone had told her mere weeks ago that she would be going on a date with Draco Malfoy on Valentine's Day, she would have told them they were completely and utterly barmy. She would have been certain something like that would  _never_ happen. Curious. Certainty was such a fickle thing.

'Would you like pudding? A coffee, perhaps?'

The waiter was back at their table, and Hermione let go of Draco's hand. She looked at him, tilting her head questioningly, and Draco responded with an approving "why not"-shrug.

'Pudding would be nice, thank you,' said Hermione, accepting the menu. 'Do you want to share, maybe?' she suggested. 'I don't know if I can manage much more.'

'Alright. What about …'– he skimmed the menu as well –'Lemon meringue tart?'

'Sounds lovely.'

'One  _tarte au citron meringuée_ , please,' ordered Draco, upon which the waiter gave a curt nod and left.

'Your pronunciation is really good,' commended Hermione. 'So natural.'

'Thanks … like I said, it's a family thing.'

'You know, that bloke I mentioned earlier –'

'I thought you didn't want to talk about him.'

'Yes, but …'– she tugged a loose strand of hair behind her ear –'I feel like I need to tell you, because when you asked me to have lunch with you – I was going out with him, you see.'

'Does that mean you were considering it back then? To say yes?'

'Um … I cannot deny that I wasn't confused at first, but essentially – yes, I was considering it.'

'So, that guy,' began Draco, averting his eyes, 'you're definitely not seeing him anymore?'

'Definitely not. You know, I was beginning to see his true colours, anyway; he turned out to be rather …'

_Don't. Don't say it._

'… two-faced.'

'What? Two-faced?' Draco's slight frown quickly turned into a scowl. 'What do you –'

' _Tarte au citron meringuée_  for the lovely couple.'

'Hm, that looks delicious,' said Hermione, as the waiter placed the dessert between them. 'Thank you.'

'Hold on,' said Draco, 'what do you mean, "two-faced"?'

_You bloody fool – you shouldn't have said that._

'Not important,' she replied, trying to sound as nonchalantly as possible. 'Hmm'– Hermione shoved a forkful of tart into her mouth –'this is sho good.'

'If you say so,' said Draco cloudily, yet his eyes and tone belied his words. When he'd been merely uncomfortable before, he was outright suspicious now.

They ate the rest of their pudding in silence, not staying for coffee. Hermione felt terrible. She shouldn't have said all those things; she knew what it would make him feel and yet she'd done it. What use was it anyway? What was she trying to accomplish? Revenge? For what? For his being nice to her – liking her? Hermione's heart beat heavily against her ribcage – she had to tell him.

'Draco?' She looked up at him. They were standing outside of the restaurant; he was gazing vacantly at the night sky as she buttoned up her coat.

'Hm?'

There it was again; that look. Only this time, it was mingled with confusion … and something else she couldn't quite place. Wistfulness?

'I'm sorry for what I've said before. Would you like to go for a walk still? And a cup of coffee, maybe?'

Draco's mouth curved into a half-hearted smile. 'Gladly,' he said, this time offering her his elbow right away – just like he'd always done it. Hermione took it, and they began to saunter about the streets.

'This way, really?' asked Draco when Hermione turned left and into a small, abandoned side alley. It was only dimly-lit, showing no sign of nearby Muggles.

'Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark.'

'Course not, I –'

'Draco?' Hermione had let go of his arm, facing him and gently pressing a finger to his lips. He stopped talking immediately, eyes growing wide at her touch.

'I have to tell you something,' she continued. 'I … I was in Paris two weeks ago.'

'Paris?'

'With my parents – as a birthday gift for my father, you see. The point is, I met someone there.'

'You … met someone,' stated Draco, evidently puzzled.

'Yes. Not just someone. I mean, I met  _you_ , but it wasn't you – Merlin, I'm terrible at this. Draco'– Hermione inhaled deeply, bracing herself –'I know. I know about you and … well, the other you.'

There. It was out. Miserably put, but out all the same.

'Say it,' snarled Draco, suddenly meeting her eyes with an unnerved glare. 'Stop beating around the bush and say it out loud.'

Hermione swallowed heavily; every fibre of her body was trembling.

_You're a Gryffindor, pull yourself together!_

'You – you're,' she sputtered. 'You're Leon.'

Draco's expression went from agitated to outright furious in the blink of an eye.

'Damn it, Granger, you  _know_?' he shouted, and Hermione instinctively took a step backwards, colliding with the cold brick wall behind her. 'You knew, and you didn't tell me?'

Draco's features were completely contorted with rage. He brandished his wand, and for a split-second, Hermione thought he was going to hex her.

 _Don't be ridiculous_ , she chided herself. Unfortunately, Draco hadn't missed the nervous glance she'd shot at his wand.

'What?' he spat. 'Think I am going to do something to you now? For your information, I just cast a Silencing Charm, on the  _both_  of us – I'm not a sodding creep!'

As much as Hermione knew that she shouldn't have teased him so much, she felt a sudden wave of anger rush through her in response to his change in inflection.

'Stop yelling at me,' she said hotly, 'Why are  _you_  the one who's cross with  _me_ now anyway?'

'For Salazar's sake, Granger! Don't turn this around! You've known for two weeks and you never even  _once_ considered telling me?'

'No! Not for two weeks! I didn't know it was you; I only ran into … well, that Muggle, Martin –'

' _Martin_ , is it now?'

'You didn't know his name?'

'What for?' growled Draco. 'I don't give a shit about his bleeding name – anyway, that's beyond the point!' He took a step towards her. 'Since when have you known?'

Hermione quickly counted the days in her head.

'Since last week,' she said meekly.

'You've got to be shitting me …' Draco groaned exasperatedly, running both hands through his white blond hair, ruffling it entirely in the process. 'How did you find out?'

'I – um – I saw you at Gringotts, with Theodore Nott …'

Hermione had thought it physically impossible, yet Draco's eyebrows knitted even closer together.

'What? How?'

'Harry's Cloak,' said Hermione hastily. 'And when you walked home after that –'

'You were  _following_ me?' he yelled. 'And POTTER KNOWS? This is un-fucking-believable … you could have fucking  _told_ me, Granger! Speak with me, like a normal person! Bloody nosy Gryffindors, you always got to snoop around, don't you?'

' _You_ could have spoken with  _me_ , also!' cried Hermione.

'Believe me, I wanted to,' snorted Draco. 'I didn't choose all of'– he gesticulated between them –'this … but you … this entire charade tonight,' he laughed bitterly. 'Tell me – was it fun? Did you enjoy seeing me sweat?'

'No!' objected Hermione. 'No, I didn't! I thought I wanted … I don't know. I wanted to beat you at your own game … but now I realise, torturing someone, even like this, is not fun at all.'

'Trust me … I know.'

He still scowled at her – shards of ice piercing her eyes, yet at least he'd stopped yelling.

'Why didn't you tell me you were going to Paris?'

'You broke up with me, remember?'

Draco merely grunted in response, kicking frustratingly at the ground. The memory of that particular day arose a question Hermione had been asking herself for a while now.

'Why did you,' she began carefully, 'always avoid – you know – kissing me?'

Draco laughed humourlessly, first looking heavenwards, shaking his head, and then turning his attention back to her.

'Because despite what you might think, I'm not a sodding prick,' he said, drawing even closer to her so that she had to tilt her head up as to be able to look him in the eye. 'How could I kiss you after seeing you with that bastard at the Ministry? You consented to kissing … well …  _Leon_. Not me. I would never do that to you.'

Hermione's face went blank.  _That's_  what it's been about the entire time?

'So what do you say?' queried Draco.

'What do you mean?'

He was so close now their noses almost touched. Hermione's breath caught when she saw the change in his eyes; they were liquid silver.

'Can I fucking kiss you now?' he growled through clenched teeth; a hungry predator being denied its prey and waiting for the kill command.


	12. Beneath the Cover

**This may or may not come as a surprise: lemons en masse!**

* * *

— CHAPTER TWELVE —

**_Beneath the Cover_ **

_"_ _Can I fucking kiss you now?"_

Draco's words reverberated in his ears as he stared down at Hermione, cheeks flushed and lips temptingly parted. Waiting for her to answer became painful; seconds felt like an eternity as his breaths came quicker, and then, at last, she nodded almost imperceptibly. It was all the affirmation he needed.

Draco reached behind her neck, his thumb pressing against her jawline and tilting her head up before his lips collided with hers, hot breaths mingling together – he didn't even try to ease into it. He didn't care. Draco was still mad at her, but Merlin did she taste good. Her lips were cool from being exposed to the winter air; the perfect blend of soft and firm with a subtle lemon flavour. The kiss they had shared before didn't begin to compare in the slightest.

Pushing his forearm to the wall for support, Draco leaned into the kiss even further. Hermione was flush against him now, her hands finding their way around his neck and into his hair, tickling him deliciously and sending shivers down his spine. He wanted to be gentle, but found it required more restraint than he was able to muster – she should have come to him directly upon discovering the truth, not seek out Harry fucking Potter! He buried his hand into her curls with more vigour than necessary, ruining her updo and half expecting to get pushed away – yet Hermione only responded with a tug equally as fervent and a sigh that made his skin crawl.

Her breathy rendering of approval certainly pushed his impatience to the next level.

'Can I,' he panted before attacking her mouth once more, 'take you – up on that – coffee?'

Instead of answering right away, Hermione suddenly pulled at his lower lip with her teeth, eliciting a groan and encouraging blood flow into his loins; Draco wondered if she could feel anything through the many layers of thick winter clothing.

'Just – coffee?' she replied, winded. 'I was'– Draco's mouth wandered away from hers and trailed along her jawline, allowing her to speak freely –'kind of hoping for more.'

That did it.

Draco pulled away at once to grab her hand, gyrating on the spot and dragging her with him; blackness pressed them together tightly until they landed on his living room floor, both panting heavily. Hermione scrambled up to her feet first.

'Not right into your bedroom then?' she quipped, grinning mischievously and swiping a tendril of hair out of her face before her eyes scanned the room. Her teasing tone alleviated some of his anger; it was too inviting not to play along.

'I told you, I have manners,' said Draco, smirking and pushing himself up as well. 'For one … I give compliments. That dress'– he drew his wand and with a flick, Hermione's coat fell to the floor –'looks incredible on you.'

She let out a little gasp of surprise but wiggled her eyebrows at him shortly after, Draco hurriedly discarding his own coat and jacket before stepping up to her. Her hands immediately wandered up to his tie, then to his collar and – as before – to the back of his neck. He should definitely be angry … but Salazar be damned, she was beautiful.

'Second of all …' said Draco huskily, not even bothering to finish the sentence.

Without so much as a warning, he picked her up; Hermione complying at once, wrapping her legs around him and bringing her hips dangerously close to his. Draco couldn't resist peering down at the red fabric that was now sliding up her thighs.

'Thank you for the compliment,' she breathed against his neck. 'You look dashing yourself.'

'I'm still cross with you,' said Draco, looking back up and locking eyes with the witch who was now innocently batting her lashes.

'Is that a promise?'

He growled before capturing her mouth again, tightening his grip and carrying her towards his bedroom – not an easy feat what with her eager kisses and demanding tongue. With a tenderness that completely belied his fervour, Draco broke the kiss and palmed her back, bending over to settle her down onto the soft duvet. She let go of his neck and instead attended to loosening his tie, dragging him down and causing his body to tumble onto the bed completely – only with quick reflexes did he manage to support his weight as to not outright crush her.

Draco barely had time to take in the view of Hermione lying beneath him, chest lifting and lowering, when she pulled his face down to meet hers through another tug of his tie. She began to fumble with the buttons of his shirt, but the heat pooling beneath his belt commanded more haste – Draco pushing himself onto his knees and stripping down until bare-chested. Hermione's hand instantly shot up, tracing (as he soon realised) one of his Sectumsempra scars. He hadn't paid it any mind that his past – eternally carved into his skin – would be exposed to her eventually. Draco instinctively attempted to hide his left arm, yet the brunette caught his wrist, wagging her head. They stared at each other for a few long seconds until she finally broke the silence.

'You're beautiful.'

Any concern vanished as soon as it came. How did she manage to calm and arouse him at the same time? He bent over again, covering her mouth in another searing kiss while her fingers trailed lower and lower, past his navel and towards the waistband of his trousers; Draco being ever so aware of the bulge below. Pressing his still covered hardness against her loins, he induced a moan that made his hackles rise. Hermione ground her hips in response, her dress rucking all the way up to her midriff and revealing a pair of matching red knickers.

'Merlin, Granger,' groaned Draco, falling to one side and propping himself up on his elbow while slipping his hand underneath the cocktail dress. He couldn't decide whether he wanted her to take it off or keep it on … maybe the latter called for another time – at least he sincerely hoped there'd be one. No, Draco had to see all of her, feel her smooth skin against his …

As if she had read his mind, Hermione rolled over onto her stomach, silently inviting him to unzip the dress as she gathered her curls into a fist, holding them off to one side, so they weren't in the way. Draco complied without hesitation, his mouth exploring her skin as he undid the zipper and planted kisses onto every birthmark he could find. Much to his satisfaction, Hermione trembled upon his ministrations.

He opened the clasp of her bra and stroked her back with the flat of his hand before grabbing the witch by the waist and turning her around to face him again. Hermione just lay there as if mesmerised; arms raised above her head to grant him undisturbed access. Her eyes were glazed over, imploring him to continue – and so he did.

Draco's throbbing need almost got the better of him when he peeled off her dress, finally exposing her bare chest; those tantalisingly beautiful, perky breasts that had so many times spiced up his dreams. Salazar save him, he could have ripped off every last bit of her clothing and fucked her senseless right then and there. But the tiny shreds of sanity which had returned upon her caresses urged him to take it slow, to savour every second – and so he did.

Hermione breathed a sultry whisper when his mouth enclosed one of the pink buds; the sound making his cock twitch and yearn for her touch. Not that he would last long should she decide to do so – he had fantasised about her too many times as to allow her such power lest he wished to come undone within seconds.

No, Draco had to remain in control.

He cupped her other breast with his free hand, kneading it softly while swiping his tongue over the hardened nub, blowing cool air onto it before lapping at it again.

'Draco …' she heaved, almost wailingly calling him back to her like a siren luring Muggle sailors to their untimely demise. While his mouth went up, meeting her wish and hence, her lips, his hand moved the opposite direction, meeting the soft skin of her abdomen before travelling farther down to the lace-covered mound.

Regardless of the thin layer of fabric, he could tell she was ready for him; swollen lips pushed against the seams, radiating heat and begging for his touch. He reached lower, and Hermione answered by opening her thighs while her hands wound around his neck again, eagerly raking through his tresses – she really seemed to like that. Draco couldn't resist a smirk upon analysing the witch's proclivities.

'What?' she whispered.

'Nothing.'

'Draco?'

'Hm?'

Hermione cupped his cheeks and levelled her gaze, specks of honey glimmering in her enticing brown eyes as she whispered.

'I want you.'

 _Sweet Merlin._ Could he be any harder?

Hermione bucked her hips, helping right along as he slipped the red knickers over her thighs. As soon as he'd tossed them to the floor, Hermione propped herself up, pushing him down onto the mattress to fumble with his belt. Draco inhaled sharply as she pulled down his trousers, his tented pants soon following suit – exposing him to the cool air and her darkened gaze glinting with desire.

He followed her stare, eyes taking in the view as her teeth simultaneously worried at her lower lip. She reached for his shaft, her loose grip stroking it ever so slowly. Painfully so. She picked up the pace, coating his tip with the thin sheen of fluid which gathered there …

'Hermione, stop,' said Draco hoarsely, unsuccessfully trying to get a hold of her behind. She complied at once, although pouting playfully before crawling on top of him, her hot centre almost – just almost – grazing his throbbing length. Hermione moved closer, brushing her lips over his, trailing soft kisses along his jawline and down to the crook of his neck. Draco, knowing he could reach her now, snaked a hand behind her parted legs, slowly dragging a finger across her wet slit and inducing a shudder beneath his touch.

Hermione froze suddenly, inhaling sharply as he circled her sweet spot before gliding one finger inside completely.

_Yes, definitely ready._

'Oh my – fuck –  _Draco_ ,' she sighed against his skin and Draco, mustering all of his self-restraint, slid out of her again to stroke her, tease her …

'Draco, please …'

Never before had Draco accommodated a wish so gladly. A loud moan escaped her lips as he brushed over her clit, rubbing it, varying in pressure to see what she liked. Hermione breathed a sigh of approval over his touch – but Merlin, he wanted to  _see_  her reaction so badly as well. Draco let go of her momentarily (which elicited a soft whimper) only to flip her onto her back and proceed working her slick heat; his erection brushing her thigh in the process so that he had to pinch himself as not to lose control.

_Only a little while longer …_

Merlin, she looked beautiful. Her hair, sprawled across the sheets like paint on a canvas; brown eyes dazed with lust and silently pleading for more. Her lips were swollen from all the snogging and biting, slightly parted and ever so appealing.

As he slipped his index finger back inside her while rubbing his thumb across her clit, Hermione arched her back, and Draco could feel her tense up.

_Almost there …_

'Draco … I –  _oh God_  …'

That was his cue. And for the love of Merlin, he couldn't have waited much longer anyway. Draco settled himself between her legs, which he didn't even have to pry apart seeing as she spread them so willingly – inviting him between them. Inviting him to enter …

And so he did.

Sweet heavens, she was fucking tight. He buried himself inside her hot centre – filling her up to the hilt, achingly slow and easing into it. This was going to require all the self-control he could muster.

Hermione's hands groped their way across his chest, eventually ending up around the nape of his neck again. Only this time, she was scratching him; each rake of her fingernails sending a chill down his spine and a rush of blood to throb beneath his abdomen.

'Fuck, Granger,' groaned Draco, leaning forward and burying his face in her hair, all the while pumping in and out of her at a torturous pace, her symphony of moans making it harder than ever not to sod it all and shag her selfishly. Draco pushed himself up onto his knees, pulling her towards him and supporting her legs.

He licked his own fingers, tasting her on his skin, and brought them down to her clit, gliding out slowly, only to sink back into her again.

'Oh God  _yes_ ,' she whimpered as Draco flicked the sensitive nub, drawing circles and rubbing it faster, simultaneously picking up speed with his thrusts. Hermione bucked her hips against him, and Draco could tell she was close now.

'Draco … I – I'm –'

She tilted her head back and breathed a delicate sigh, her walls clenching around him and bringing Draco so incredibly close to the edge himself. There was no over-exaggeration of her noises, no dramatic shrieks to feign enjoyment. Just sultry whimpers which she conspicuously tried to censor as if she was embarrassed to let him in on her most well-protected secret. Draco kept working her slick folds until her body stopped constricting, riding out every wave of pleasure right along with her. He leaned forward and captured her mouth in a tender kiss, as though rewarding her for her orgasm. It was when her eyelids fluttered open, Hermione levelling her besotted gaze with his, that he couldn't hold himself back any longer.

Reaching behind her neck, he grabbed fistfuls of curls, pounding into her hard and fast to settle the growing need for his own release. He knew it wouldn't take long – her pussy felt even tighter and more intoxicating than before. Hermione wrapped her legs around him, and he could feel her fingernails scraping at his back still, her warm breath ghosting across the sensitive skin behind his ear, sighing his name …

Just like he had imagined it many times before, it was her voice that brought Draco over the edge in the end. He spilt into her with a muffled groan, his cock pulsating along with the heavy beat of his heart. Pumping in and out of her slowly, he savoured every last bit of his climax until the world ceased to spin, standing blissfully still. Nothing mattered but their heavy breaths and pounding hearts. Hermione had stopped scratching him and instead returned to playing with his hair – yes, she  _definitely_  liked doing that.

'Best coffee I've ever had,' she said softly, and Draco could tell she was smiling; he grinned into her neck, inhaling her scent and burning the moment into his memory forever – this must be what heaven felt like.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Draco?'

'Hm?'

'You're crushing me.'

'Oh, right – sorry,' he said, rolling off her and onto his back. Hermione propped herself up, taking the time to relish his drowsy state. His eyes were half-closed as one of his fingers absentmindedly drew circles on her forearm; his normally perfectly styled, platinum hair was ruffled completely and falling into his eyes – yet of course, that only made him more attractive. Sweat beaded on his forehead and over his cupid's bow, a subtle, pink hue reddening his cheeks.

'Do you know where my wand is?' she asked him, upon which Draco met her gaze; she had never before seen him that peaceful and – as for that matter – beautiful.

He closed his eyes again, muttering something incomprehensible that sounded like "prolly" and "linen rum".

'Beg your pardon?' she said, unable to resist a smirk at his adorable coma-like condition.

'Probably still in the living room,' he repeated clearly. 'In your coat.'

'Oh, right.'

'What d'you need it for, anyway?'

'Um … we just had sex,' said Hermione, pointing out the obvious.

'Yeah we did,' grinned Draco devilishly. 'Ouch! What was that for?'

Hermione had lightly punched him in the shoulder – out of affection, of course.

'Just use mine then?' suggested Draco, eyes still shut. 'It's somewhere over there'– he waved his arm about vaguely, being entirely unhelpful –'I had it in my back pocket.'

Hermione raised her eyebrows in surprise.

'Are you sure?' she queried.

'Course I am.'

Hermione couldn't help but feel flattered; offering one's wand to somebody else required a great deal of trust. She slid off the bed and immediately spotted Draco's wand, which had, in the heat of the moment, rolled onto the floor. She picked it up gingerly, pointing it to her lower abdomen and saying, ' _Contraceptio_.'

'Oh,' uttered Draco behind her. 'I forgot about that.'

'It's okay. I wouldn't – believe me.'

'I thought you just wanted to – er – Vanish … stuff,' he muttered.

'Good idea,' sniggered Hermione, performing the suggested spell and feeling much better because of it.

'I mean,' Draco carried on, 'if I had known you would cast a more complicated charm, I'd have done it … or Summoned your wand.'

Hermione understood that he was by no means referring to a lack of magical abilities, but to the fact that using another person's wand usually required some getting used to before casting advanced spells.

'Really, it's okay,' she said. 'I – um … I've already used your wand before,' she ended meekly.

'You ha – oh. Right.'

There it was – the Erumpent in the room: the War, their scars, the giant chasm of mutual contempt that had once stretched deep between them. A history which, she had to admit, Hermione never thought would one day land her in his bedroom.

She placed his wand on the bedside table – the wand she had of course tried, years ago when it had belonged to Harry – and clambered back next to Draco.

He was still completely naked, and Hermione bit her lower lip, revelling in the sight. He wasn't overly muscular, but lean and nicely toned – the typical Seeker's build. She didn't have to be an expert in Quidditch to know that, what with Ginny having pointed it out to her on more than one occasion. His complexion was pale as ever; however, it simply underlined his aristocratic looks. She liked it. Godric save her, she liked it so much.

Hermione didn't miss that Draco's head rested on top of his left arm, thus concealing the scarred flesh which she had caught a glimpse of earlier. She knew very well that they had to talk about it eventually. It itched her to know what had made him into the man he was now, yet she also knew that she didn't want to spoil the moment. They still had plenty of time, after all – or so she hoped at least.

'You could just  _ask_  for the blanket, you know,' smirked Draco. Hermione had mindlessly been trying to tug it from underneath him for the past half minute or so; it was getting rather chilly.

'Come here,' he offered, lifting himself off the mattress to release the blanket, holding it aloft for her to snuggle under. Hermione happily obliged. She scooched over to him, Draco wrapping the warm duvet around them both. He seemed to have recovered from his drowsiness, what with his grey eyes being alert again, looking at her endearingly – like they had so many times before. Draco pulled her closer, planting a soft kiss onto her forehead and burying his face in her curls.

'You smell the same,' said Hermione after a few moments of blissful silence, absentmindedly stroking his chest with her fingertips. He did, indeed; the Polyjuice Potion had apparently not affected his scent, Hermione smelling the same individual odour, the same hints of cologne as when he had been in disguise. She felt relieved at the realisation – it backed up her decision to ask Draco out and everything it had entailed since then.

'You too,' he mumbled into her hair.

'Very funny,' snorted Hermione. ' _I'm_  not the one posing as somebody else.'

'Are you sure? I could have sworn you looked differently earlier – oh wait'– Draco pulled away just enough to give her the once-over –'no, you're just naked.'

Hermione couldn't help but mirror the lopsided grin that was now spreading across his face – that bloody handsome face with his handsomely high cheekbones and perfectly tousled hair. However, it didn't get past her that he seemed to avoid the topic of his persona.

_Just let him. Be patient._

'I prefer your hair like this,' she said, reaching up and ruffling it even further.

'Oh yeah?' Draco moved on top of her in the blink of an eye, inducing a soft, surprised "oh" in response to his suddenly regained energy. 'And I never thought I'd once say it, but I like it when your … your _lion's mane_  is all messy … messier than usual that is – looks  _so_  good against my mattress.'

Hermione bit her lip in response, eliciting a deep groan. Draco then leaned forward to nibble at the sensitive spot below her ear.

'Care for another coffee, Granger?'

'Ready so soon, hm?' Hermione closed her eyes, losing herself in his ministrations.

'Naturally,' he purred, his hot breath causing a wave of tingles running down her spine.

'I liked it better when you called me by my given name, by the way,' she chuckled, and Draco drew away to look at her.

'But it's a term of endearment,' he claimed, squeezing her tight and kissing her temples. 'I'm used to it.'

'Are you? I mean … you said my name plenty of times before if I recall correctly – unless of course it wasn't you after all that I was seeing. Besides, what will my friends say when you call me "Granger" in front of them?'

'I don't care,' he said, but when she regarded him with a playfully admonishing look, he rolled his eyes, adding, 'Alright,  _Hermione'_ – Draco lay an unnecessary amount of emphasis on her name –'I'll call you that from now on. Except … well,' he grinned broadly, a mischievous twinkle sparkling in his eyes. 'I mean, you didn't seem to mind earlier.'

She had absolutely no idea what possessed her to do such a silly thing (other than her generally good mood), yet Hermione groped behind her in the hopes of finding a certain soft something that would wipe the smug expression off his face. As if she had known it would be in perfect reach of her arm's length, she got hold of a pillow, slinging it at him without so much as a warning.

'Hey! Why'd you do that?'

Hermione broke into a fit of giggles instead of answering, now attacking every inch of his skin she could reach with her fingers – tickling the dragon was too much fun to resist. To her disadvantage, Draco – by far the stronger of the two – easily caught her wrists, pinning her down to the mattress and thus shutting her up immediately.

'You little minx,' he murmured, brushing his lips against hers. 'Or lioness, to be more exact.' He traced her lower lip with his tongue, but just as she wanted to turn his teasing into a proper kiss, Draco drew back.

'Oh no,' he said. 'You have to earn it.'

'If you let go of me, I will.'

Hermione could tell he was considering it, what with his intent stare and that easily palpable gulp causing ripples on his throat. To her disappointment, he didn't play along.

'You just mentioned your friends,' he observed, still holding her in place. 'Does that mean you made up your mind about telling them?'

'I suppose … I don't know yet,' she confessed, worrying her lip again. 'Maybe. I mean, probably – no,  _definitely_  someda-hmph –'

Hermione couldn't finish her aimless prattling as her mouth found itself occupied by Draco's once again – he seemed to want to play along after all. She closed her eyes, solely focusing on the way his lips exerted the perfect amount of pressure; the way his tongue battled with hers for dominance. Warmth began to flush between her legs once more, and Hermione arched her back, hardened nipples grazing his chest and she could swear to have felt a telltale  _something_  prodding her thigh. Her movements induced another one of his enticing groans, muffled through the kiss – it was music to her ears.

'Now about that … earning thing,' he panted once he had abandoned her mouth, leaving Hermione in a lust-filled haze.

'Yeah?' she sighed. 'What about it?'

'You tell me, Hermione – what did you have in mind?'

There was something about the way he said her name – probably the sudden raspiness in his voice which also seemed to have dropped an octave – that made her insides squirm in the most delightful way, pumping confidence into her veins much like Felix Felicis – only better.

'Lie down,' she said calmly. It wasn't a question, and she could tell by his sharp intake of breath that he didn't mind being bossed around – on the contrary. Draco obliged, and Hermione did not hesitate to straddle him, his hardness only a palm away from her own pooling heat. She bent forward ( _incidentally_  leaning onto his length with her stomach) and began trailing kisses all over his scarred chest to the taut muscles of his upper abdomen. Hermione couldn't pinpoint as to why, but there was something about the white marks that made him all the more real, tangible.

Out of the corners of her eyes, she saw Draco watching her, clutching the blanket. He was longing for her touch, that much was obvious. She pushed herself back up and wrapped her hand around the hard shaft, knowing he would let her this time. She began stroking him at an excruciating tempo, revelling in the sight of his undecided eyes, which kept switching back and forth between her own brown pair and to where her hand was currently fondling his cock. Hermione bit her lip when she felt the warm droplet bedew the inside of her thumb; using it to dampen her palm and pick up the pace, which earned her a hushed string of profanities.

'Hermione …' he uttered then, and she knew he didn't mean for her to stop. She pumped up and down his shaft one last time, pushing her hips upwards and circling his root with her thumb and forefinger. Hermione knew without having to check that she was slick with arousal, coating him with it once before giving in to his silent pleas and her own aching desires; the ever so surreal desire for filling herself with none other than Draco Malfoy.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione awoke to the sound of his calm breaths. Eyes fluttering open she instantly met his gaze, silver eyes glittering in the darkness.

'How late is it?' she mumbled. Upon noticing a tiny damp spot on her pillow where her mouth touched the fabric, mortification took over her senses.

_Great, he saw you drooling._

Draco, however, did not seem to mind in the slightest. He put out his hand, gently tucking one of her curls behind her ear.

'My guess is … past three in the morning?' he said eventually.

'How long have you been awake?'

'A while.'

'Can't sleep?' she asked, upon which Draco shook his head.

'Not really,' he said. 'But it's alright. Tomorrow's Saturday, anyway.'

He flashed her a smile that made Hermione's heart flutter. There she was, lying in bed with the former Slytherin prefect, a sore yet ever so sweet tingle between her legs – witness of a night fervently spent; lying there together, stark naked underneath the covers, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger. She reminisced about the past nine hours and the 180 degree spin her life had taken in the meantime. Time: what a curious thing; one year could pass in a blur without any meaningful change whatsoever whereas nine hours – nine innocent and oh-so-short hours – could make the most powerful difference.

Thinking about it like that made everything seem so bloody unreal. Yet here she was. Had she wished for it to happen? Perhaps. Had she known it actually would? No, she couldn't have possibly anticipated she'd end up in his bed, could she?

_Right, that's why you topped up Crookshanks's bowl before you left – because he needs fattening._

Her inner voice had a point. If the way he'd kissed her back at the funeral had been any indication …

'Can I ask you something?' whispered Hermione.

'Sure,' said Draco, although she didn't miss the subtle frown that was forming on his brow.

'Why'd you do it? The whole … false identity thing.'

To her surprise, Draco breathed a sigh of relief – apparently having expected a question much more unsettling.

'Ask me something easier,' he chuckled. 'No, but seriously … I think a big part of it is that I had this idea a while back and just … went with it.'

'When did you come up with it?'

Hermione could practically see the numbers floating about Draco's head while he paused for reflection.

'About … two and a half years ago?'

'Wow … and no one knows?' asked Hermione. 'Except me and Theodore Nott I mean.'

'No one else.'

'How did you manage to keep it a secret for so long?

'Occlumency certainly helps,' he said nonchalantly.

'You're an Occlumens?'

'Why do you sound surprised?' asked Draco. 'You're not the only one with skills, you know.'

Hermione bit her lip, sheepishly averting her gaze, but Draco only cupped her cheek, giving her face a nudge and thus gently forcing her to meet his eyes again.

'Hey,' he said softly, 'I was joking. I won't pick a petty fight with you, Hermione.'

'Does that mean you're not upset anymore?'

Draco shook his head.

'I think I can safely say that I put that past me about six hours ago,' he chuckled, rolling onto his back and turning his face towards her. 'Although I must admit, it was a sly move. But what did I expect from the witch who once kept Rita Skeeter in a jar?' he added with a grin and Hermione felt endlessly relieved. She snuggled closer, snaking one arm about his waist and resting her head on his shoulder, inhaling his scent like a drug. Godric, he smelt so good.

'You still haven't answered my first question,' she breathed against his collarbone, drawing lazy patterns across his chest. 'Why did you alter your identity in the first place?'

'Isn't it obvious?' Draco murmured into her hair. 'After the whole thing with the Mud Marches … I just didn't want to put myself out there. Too many held – and still hold – a grudge against my family. Not that I can blame them. I don't think anyone would have taken my writing seriously, let alone hired me.'

'You don't know that.'

'I am quite positive, Hermione. Think about it – remember how sceptical you were when I proposed to support your work? You thought I was taking the piss.'

'No, I – I mean, maybe,' yielded Hermione, scrunching up her nose. 'But if I had known you had – you know –  _changed_ '– she smothered a yawn –'I might have reacted differently.'

'Since when do you pay more heed to speculation than facts?' he said amusedly. 'Besides, I told you; once the idea was there, I just sort of went with it. It worked for me. Until … well – until my boss decided to set me up with you.'

'I'm glad he did,' mumbled Hermione, eyes already closed.

'Me too,' said Draco, planting a soft kiss on her head. 'You're tired; you should go back to sleep.'

'I'm not ti –' she wanted to talk back, yet unsuccessfully so when a loud yawn proved her words false.

'Yeah, right,' chortled Draco, carefully lifting her back onto her pillow. Hermione chuntered in protest, but Draco soon had her in his arms again, only now her back was pressed to his chest.

'Goodnight, lioness,' he whispered into her ear. Hermione's retort was delayed significantly, what with her consciousness drifting away and her mind shutting down.

'You know Leon means lion, right?' she muttered after a while, upon which Draco gave her arms a gentle squeeze.

'Glad that we have that settled,' he said. 'Now don't you ever mention it again.'


	13. Of Coffee and Cake

**Behold: a few more lemons!**

* * *

— CHAPTER THIRTEEN —

**_Of Coffee and Cake_ **

When Hermione opened her eyes in the morning, Draco's arm was still wrapped around her waist, albeit loosely – his deep, slow breaths giving away that he was fast asleep. For a moment, she relished in their entwined position and the intimacy it implied, and she would have gladly stayed in bed forever, but Godric be damned, she needed the loo. Urgently.

Gingerly lifting his arm off her, she crawled out from underneath the blanket and all but rolled onto the floor. She really didn't want to wake him up, now that he'd finally got some sleep. Luckily, her little stealth manoeuvre didn't even cause him to stir.

Hermione picked up her knickers and opted for the door opposite the bed, which she assumed would lead into the bathroom. Her hand already on the doorknob, she peeked over her shoulder; Draco looked so peaceful, what with his features softened by the deep slumber, mouth open ever so slightly. She only hoped that his dreams were as calm as his breaths.

Once she felt properly freshened up, Hermione tiptoed to the sitting room. Had someone asked her what she thought Draco Malfoy's place looked like, she wouldn't have answered the question with "snug", that was sure. For some strange, prejudiced, and utterly juvenile reason, she'd expected darker furnishings, emerald drapings, silver chandeliers, and black marble. It was silly, she knew. Thankfully, Draco's home was as much dark and cold as Hagrid was petite.

The sofa looked invitingly comfortable, the large bookshelf behind it covering the entire wall. There was a set of armchairs, one of which stood right next to the window. Its upholstery was slightly dented – a telltale sign of frequent use. Hermione smiled at the observation; it told of long hours spent sitting by the window, possibly reading or looking outside. However trivial it may seem, Hermione felt closer to Draco simply by learning which was his preferred lounging spot. She wanted to get to know him;  _truly_ get to know him – his everyday habits; his favourite jam; his favourite sleeping position; his favourite everything.

The whole décor was cosy yet tastefully simple; however, Hermione did not miss that nothing indicated to Draco Malfoy's living there in particular. There were no pictures; no photos of friends or family; not even a Slytherin or Quidditch pennant.

'Good morning.'

_Now there's solid proof of whose place it is._

Hermione whirled around, greeting Draco with a warm smile. He was leaning against a wall in nothing but a pair of boxers; his hair deliciously tousled and a lopsided smirk accentuating the pillow wrinkles on one-half of his face. Hermione's smile turned into a broad grin.

'What are you so happy about?' asked Draco.

'Nothing,' murmured Hermione, pursing her lips. Godric, he looked adorable! 'Are you reading  _Animal Farm_?' she asked, pointing at the book lying on a small side table next to Draco's armchair.

'No, I just put it there to make it  _look_  like I'm reading,' he said, uncrossing his arms and ambling towards her. 'Honestly, Hermione … of course I'm reading it.'

'It's a Muggle book,' she observed, while Draco picked up their coats to hang them over the sofa's armrest.

'So? Can't I read Muggle literature?'

'No, I mean – yes, course you can. Sorry.'

'It's alright,' he said with a half-smile, standing right in front of her now and reaching up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. 'You still see me as … well, the old me.'

'No,' objected Hermione, shaking her head, the movement inadvertently rendering Draco's affectionate gesture futile. 'Not when I really think about it, that is. It's just … how can I explain this?'

'You don't have to,' said Draco wistfully, 'I understand. I'd have doubts, too. I mean, look at me …' He held up his left arm, for the first time putting his scars on display for her to see. The skin was raised and white where the Dark Mark had been, and Hermione was still able to make out the outline of a skull. Even faded like this, it was strange and somehow disturbing to look at the blemish which she once had been certain would never defile him. 'This reminds me every day, Hermione,' he carried on. 'Every day it reminds me of all the wrong choices I made, of …' he trailed off then, evidently struggling to find words, 'What I'm trying to say is – if it makes  _me_ uneasy still, how are  _you_ supposed to feel about it? You're … you're everything I was taught to hate. Maybe I once did … or at least I thought I did. I don't know.'

'But that's not it,' said Hermione, hesitantly reaching out to touch his arm, almost expecting him to jerk away – yet he didn't. She gently ran her fingertips across the scar tissue as though her caresses alone could make them disappear. 'You're not like that anymore, and I know it. I just don't think my subconscious is there just yet, and sometimes I say things I –'

'Really, it's okay,' Draco cut her off, leaning forward to kiss her cheek, lips slowly wandering towards her ear. Hermione tilted her head back ever so slightly to allow him better access, his touch tickling at first, but the sensation soon turning into a pleasant tingle that extended all the way to her lower spine. 'I'll just have to convince your subconscious then …'

The change in his inflection made Hermione suddenly very aware of her nakedness, save the pair of knickers. Her body seemed to notice as well, what with her nipples perking up and prickling against the cool air. As Draco's lips kept planting kisses onto her neck, Hermione let go of his arm and placed her hands on his chest, stroking him and revelling in the firm texture.

'I could use a shower, how about you?' he whispered in her ear, and Hermione felt her thighs constrict in response, knowing all too well what it implied.

'I wouldn't say no,' she replied, simultaneously moving her hands downwards. Oh, she loved to feel his skin beneath her fingertips! From his abdomen, she made her way to the small of his back and then down to his luscious rear. Draco answered with a groan as well as hot breaths against the crook of her neck.

'I thought you left, you know,' he said hoarsely. 'When I first woke up. Only until I saw your dress lying on the floor, but still …'

Hermione reached up to cup his cheeks, gently forcing him to meet her gaze. Godric, how were his eyes even real?

'Why would I leave?'

'I don't know … panic? Regret? Self-loath –'

'Draco,' interrupted Hermione, staring intently into his grey eyes and hoping he would see the sincerity in her own, 'last night was the most magical night of my life. And that's saying something coming from a Muggle-born witch, don't you think?'

'You really think so?'

Hermione allowed her eyes to flutter shut and her lips to curve into a contented smile.

'Yeah. Absolutely.'

Draco captured her mouth as soon as the words had escaped it. The kiss was intimate on a whole new level; sweetened with the memory of the night prior; supported by the confidence that they were more than just compatible; and peppered with excitement for more, the air between them crackling with unspoken plans and promises.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'You don't happen to have something for me to wear, do you?' asked Hermione while towel drying her hair and glancing at him out of the corner of her eye; Draco couldn't for the life of him remember when he'd ever been happier.

'Perhaps …' he drawled, 'but I think I prefer you like this.'

'Catching a cold, you mean?' she retorted, now casting a Drying Charm onto her chocolate curls.

'Point taken. Hang on …' He walked over to his wardrobe and handed her a pair of pyjama bottoms, a vest, and the first jumper he could get a hold of.

'Oh, I like these,' she said happily after accepting the trousers. 'But … Draco?'

'What's wrong?'

'Are you sure you're okay with me wearing this?'

He turned around. Hermione was holding one of his old school jumpers aloft – dark grey with a Slytherin sew-on-patch.

'Oh, sorry, 'I'll give you another one,' he mumbled, already reaching for the pullover. Hermione, however, clutched it to her chest.

'Only if it bothers you, because I don't mind at all,' she said.

'Why would it bother me? If anything, it only makes you more attractive.'

'Well then,' said Hermione, pulling it over her head and thus making an even bigger mess out of her hair than usual. 'What do you say – can you still handle this level of attractiveness?'

'Barely,' said Draco, pursing his lips to stifle a grin. 'Here'– he opened a drawer and fetched a pair of woollen socks –'I can't risk you getting cold feet.'

Hermione smiled at him devilishly. 'Are you sure these won't make you swoon over me?'

'I think I'll manage.'

'Just you wait,' said Hermione, struggling to keep balance while slipping the socks over her feet, 'you wouldn't be the first to fall for – whoops –'

Draco stepped up to her just in time to hold her frame in place, hence stopping her from toppling over.

'Who cares about the first?' he muttered into her hair – Merlin, it smelt so good …

Drawing back he added softly, 'As long as I'm the last …'

At that, Hermione's eyes went wide, a deep scarlet hue flushing her cheeks. Draco smiled at her reaction; he thoroughly enjoyed being the reason for it. When she didn't say anything, however, his expression quickly faltered. Perhaps he shouldn't have said that – was is too soon? Was it too much? Hell, what would he know? He had never been in a situation like this. Nothing he'd ever experienced could even begin to compare.

Just as Draco's pulse began to speed up in response to Hermione's ongoing silence, she raised herself on tiptoes and kissed him. It was sweet and gentle, and she somehow managed to assuage any uncertainty instantly.

'D'you want a coffee, maybe?' he asked.

'Again?'

'What? Oh – no, I meant actual coffee this time,' said Draco hastily. 'Although –'

'Yeah, I'd love one,' she winked at him before flouncing out, the long legs of his pyjama bottoms almost making her trip and fall, hence undermining her endeavour of looking graceful – only that it made her all the more adorable in his eyes.

'Where's the kitchen?' he heard her ask from the hall. 'Oh, nevermind – found it!'

Draco gazed after her, completely lost in his thoughts; he felt utterly mesmerised by the witch, praying to whatever deity was willing to hear him out that this day never end. What with all the terrible things happening in the outside world, every minute spent with her was all the more precious. He knew he couldn't ignore the ongoing threat, but it was so tempting just to imagine running away somewhere and taking her with him. An utterly ludicrous idea, of course; she would never turn her back on her friends, family, or generally everyone in the wizarding (and non-wizarding) community.

'Are you coming?' she called, ripping Draco from his thoughts. He shook his head as if shooing away a fly and followed her into the kitchen. Hermione sat on the worktop when he entered, legs dangling free.

'You promised coffee,' she reminded him cheerfully.

'Coffee it is,' said Draco, drawing his wand and setting to work in his usual habit. He felt her watching him for a while, and he could tell she was stifling a comment about him – spoiled, pure-blood aristocracy – performing decent household magic; an effort which he truly appreciated.

'I like it when you smile,' she said as he handed her a mug of white coffee, Draco only then noticing the rapturous expression on his face.

'Likewise,' he said, immediately rewarded with a warm smile in return.

'Do you want some breakfast?' asked Draco. 'I can only speak for myself, but I'm starving.'

'Me too. Can I help you with something?'

'No, but thanks,' he said. 'Just relax, yeah? I'm sure you will return the favour one day or another.'

'Oh, I know exactly  _which_ favour I'd like to return,' she smirked before taking a sip. 'Ouch, hot!'

'Hot indeed,' said Draco, trying to ignore the inner voice telling him to take her right then and there on the bloody worktop. 'Don't tempt me, woman … I need sustenance, and so do you.'

'I'd say it counts as sustenance,' she winked. For Salazar's sake, did she even have the remotest idea of what she was doing to him? Here she was, just sitting there in his old Slytherin jumper, with trousers too long and feet wrapped neatly in thick woollen socks, teasing him about  _that_. Draco felt his blood flowing again, swallowing hard and meeting her gaze. Was she being serious?

'Scrambled or … fried?' he asked meekly, his voice fading into nothing. Instead of answering, Hermione placed her mug next to the sink, slipping off the worktop and walking towards him. She took his own mug out of his hands before slinging her arms around his neck and bringing her lips close to his. There was a gentle vigour in her kiss that made Draco's knees buckle. She tasted of coffee now.

'May I?' she breathed against his lips, making Draco's heart rate accelerate so much he was sure it would burst. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed him against the counter and squatted down slowly, her hand running down his t-shirt until resting at its hem and right above his now throbbing erection. She looked up at him once as if asking for permission again and when Draco nodded, she unbuttoned his trousers, pulling them down to pool at his ankles; his boxer shorts quickly following suit. Hermione bit her lip once before circling his root with her forefinger and thumb ( _is this really happening?_ ), planting kisses all the way up his shaft ( _fuck yes, it's happening!_ ), until reaching his tip and enveloping it with her lips.

_Sweet Mother of Merlin._

The sensation exceeded his fantasies by far – Draco thought he was going to faint upon the touch of Hermione's hot mouth taking him in as though it were her last meal on planet earth. Not knowing what else to do with his hands, he buried them in her disturbingly bushy hair, resisting the pressing urge to enforce a rhythm on her.

 _Calm down_ , he told himself. _Just let her …_

Easier said than done. So as not to do something he'd later come to regret, he let go of her, holding onto the edge of the worktop instead; his knuckles – he was sure – soon turning white. Draco couldn't decide if he'd rather close his eyes and simply relish the amazing sensation or look at her – Hermione bloody Granger – sucking him off in his kitchen. He eventually went for the latter.

The sight was so incredibly arousing that Draco felt himself grow even harder in her mouth, if that was physically possible. Everything else around them was soon forgotten. All he saw was her, an insatiable desire radiating from her every move. All he heard were the sinful sounds filling the air between them. All he felt was the wet heat surrounding him, the sensation of her lapping tongue against his sensitive tip while her hand pumped up and down his shaft.

It was too much.

A sultry moan – muffled by his cock – pushed Draco over the edge at last. He tensed up completely, inhaling sharply as he felt pulsing waves unloading into her mouth. For a few blissful seconds, his world stood completely still; for a few seconds until his conscience kicked back in.

_You bloody idiot._

'Sorry,' he blurted, locking eyes with the witch who was still kneeling in front of him. 'I –  _fuck_ – I should have warned you … I didn't expect you to –'

'It's okay, don't worry,' she interrupted him, rising to her feet. 'I didn't mind at all.'

'Are you sure?' asked Draco while he pulled up his trousers.

'Yes, Draco, I am sure,' said Hermione emphatically, her lips curving into a reassuring smile. 'If it weren't, I would tell you, trust me. Now – since you asked … scrambled eggs sound perfect.'

Perfect, indeed.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Hm, this is really good.'

Hermione was poking in her eggs while her feet played with his underneath the table.

'I'm glad you like it,' said Draco, taking a sip from his second cup of coffee. He was feeling incredibly at ease.

'You do realise that I expect you to cook for me on a regular basis from now on, don't you?'

Draco chuckled. 'If that's all I have to fulfil …'

'I can think of other things,' she said, blushing. 'I'm serious, though. This is fantastic.'

Hermione then nibbled at her toast, yet she unexpectedly halted mid-bite.

'Oh no …' she breathed, eyes unfocused.

'What is it?'

'I completely forgot about Luna,' she said. 'She turned 21 this week, but it's her birthday brunch today – as in  _right now_. In Hogsmeade.'

Draco couldn't pinpoint as to why, but he felt his heart plummet at the mention of her friends; her friends who would most likely despise him even more than usual for his being with Hermione now.  _Shagging_ her. And of course, deceiving them all.

'I'm so sorry, Draco,' said Hermione, and she truly sounded like she meant it. 'I have to go'– she shot a glance over her shoulder and at the mantlepiece clock –'I was supposed to be there half an hour ago, and I still need to get changed and everything.'

'Yeah … this outfit might be a dead giveaway.'

'Sorry,' she said again. 'I'd really love to stay; you know that, don't you?'

'I do. C'mon. You had better hurry before they get suspicious.'

'Right,' nodded Hermione, standing up. Draco did by no means want to be pesky, but his curiosity got the better of him regardless.

'Have you really told Potter?'

'Have I told Harry what? That it's you?'

'Yeah,' he said, frowning, 'you mentioned him last night, so I assumed he knows.'

Hermione shook her head. 'No,' she said. 'When I first found out I thought about telling him, yes … but I decided against it. He only knows that Leon is a cover, but he has no idea it's you.'

A wave of relief washed over him, and Draco let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

'So …  _are_  you going to tell them?' he asked.

'I don't know – maybe?' Hermione stared at her hands, fidgeting. 'I mean, probably not today. Not with all of them in one spot.'

'Here's the thing,' said Draco, standing up as well and wrapping his hands around hers. 'I know I asked you last night whether you would tell them or not, but I thought about it again while you were asleep … I feel like I need to figure this all out first – what to do now. I have no idea, to be honest. Maybe don't tell them just yet? Besides, I don't want them to eat you alive.'

'They're my friends, Draco, not a pack of hyenas. They'll understand.'

'Will they?' doubted Draco, sounding more churned up than he liked to impart. 'Look, Hermione, I don't want to paint it black, but this is just how it is. I am well aware that what I was doing – what I  _am_ doing – is illegal. Two of your friends are Aurors. Then there's Lovegood, who's a writer as well if I am not mistaken. Do you really want to risk their being mad and let something slip to the public? I have been faking an identity, Hermione. If that comes out, I will have to face serious charges –'

'I trust them, Draco,' she interjected. 'But okay, I will not tell them just yet. But it also means that you need to figure out what to do now, don't you agree?'

'I do. I just don't know how. Will I outright quit my job? I know the past weeks have been rough, and I hate reporting on the attacks, but someone has to do it properly. We certainly can't rely on Skeeter or her lot. And how conspicuous would it be if I quit and then came back later as myself to apply again? No … besides, I wouldn't have anything to show for. I can hardly use my references any longer.'

At that, Hermione regarded him with a pitiful look.

'Don't …' he said. 'Don't say that I've brought this to myself. I can't undo my decision from years ago.'

'I wasn't about to,' she said, now squeezing his hands soothingly. 'Yes, this is complicated. But you will figure something out, I am sure. Also … if you hadn't done all this, do you think our paths would've ever crossed again? Like this?'

Draco wagged his head. 'Probably not,' he admitted.

'See?' Hermione smiled at him before pecking his cheek. 'We'll manage somehow. And about the charges … Harry already knows that your identity is fake, I might as well try and enquire about potential legal repercussions.'

'Fine,' he agreed. 'You do that. But please –'

'Don't tell them, I know – don't worry.'

'Thank you,' said Draco, pulling her close and once again inhaling her scent. 'For everything.'

'Not for that,' she chuckled against his collarbone. 'And why do you sound like we'll never see each other again?'

Draco drew away just enough to look her in the eye.

'We  _will_ see each other again, won't we?' she added.

'Of course, silly.'

'Sil –'

'Whenever you want.'

'So … tomorrow?' she asked.

'Tomorrow it is.'

'Can't wait,' said Hermione.

'Be careful, okay?'

She promised she would. Hermione then picked up her coat and shoes, kissing him one more time before throwing a fistful of Floo powder into the fireplace and disappearing in a blaze of green. Once she was gone, Draco couldn't help but pump his fists into the air in a victorious fashion. It was juvenile, he knew, but cooking breakfast for Hermione Granger after a passionate night and a no less passionate morning was undisputedly a success which yet had to meet its match. The next day couldn't come soon enough.

Draco opened the door to the staircase and all but jumped up the winding steps, always taking two at once. The attic floor was parted into his study on the one side, and his laboratory on the other. He went over to his workbench to check on the new batch of Sober-Up Potion; it was simmering away and had already assumed (at this stage) the desired purple colour – two more days, and it would turn a clear indigo.

He chuckled at the memory of why he'd run out of the concoction in the first place: drinks with Theo on the night after Hermione had followed him. He hadn't known back then, of course, but it still made for a fond memory. Regardless of whether or not he'd been furious with her at first, he couldn't be any gladder about the truth being out at last. Everything had fallen into place thus far, why shouldn't it stay that way?

Draco walked up to his desk – mind set on writing Theo – when his gaze fell upon a bright blue flyer lying on top of his "to-do" pile. The pamphlet had arrived sometime during the week – ever reminding him of his vexingly frustrating shortcoming. Draco picked it up and glared at the taunting headline: "MINISTRY SECURITY ADVICE: THE PATRONUS CHARM". The tips following were nothing Draco hadn't heard before: happy memories, concentration, clear articulation. Happy memories …

_I wonder …_

Draco lowered the pamphlet and stared out the rooflight, utterly struck by one simple realisation: he was happy. Tremendously so. If this wasn't the right moment for another try, then what was? He turned around and drew his wand, focusing every single fibre of his brain on the memory of her voice and everything it stood for:

_"_ _Last night was the most magical night of my life."_

' _Expecto Patronum_.'

Nothing.

_"_ _You're beautiful."_

' _Expecto Patronum_!'

Still nothing. Draco felt his wand-hand tense up, his jaw clenching so hard it was giving him a headache.

_"_ _Best coffee I've ever had."_

' _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!' he yelled, but it didn't change anything. 'FUCK!' Draco kicked at a nearby file cabinet, regretting it instantly what with the throbbing pain it entailed. Further profanities escaped his lips as he turned back to the desk to grab the aggravating Ministry flyer, crumpling it up and tossing it into the dustbin. Fuck the Ministry and their stupid advice – he was sick of it all.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hogsmeade was bustling with Hogwarts students; most of them looked cheerful, chatting animatedly with their friends and showing each other their latest acquisitions from the new Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes shop, yet Hermione spotted many a giddy student shooting wary glances at the several Ministry witches and wizards who were currently patrolling the village. The castle, as well as Hogsmeade, were under constant security, vividly reminding Hermione of her third year; only now the Dementors weren't there to "guard" the grounds from an alleged threat – they  _posed_ the threat.

When Hermione entered the Three Broomsticks about an hour late, her friends were already there. The pub was crowded, mind you, but Hagrid was not particularly hard to miss. He was the first one to notice her, waving happily over the heads of the chattering mass of students.

'Oi, Hermione,' he boomed as she bulldozed her way through the crowd until she reached the table. Around it sat all her friends: Harry and Ginny, Neville and Hannah, Ron, who – to her delight – had brought Ayano; Hagrid, of course, and a handsome bloke Hermione immediately recognised as Rolf Scamander.

'Hi everyone,' she greeted the other guests before turning to Luna and giving her a heartfelt hug. 'Sorry I'm late. Happy belated birthday, Luna.'

'Don't worry,' said the blonde, and if it were a reasonable explanation for her delay, she added, 'You're radiant.'

'Um … thank you?'

'You're welcome – have a seat,' said Luna, tilting her head and cocking it at the empty chair between her and Hagrid.

'Here, this is for you.' Hermione sat down and handed her a small parcel. 'It's for your travels,' she explained as Luna tore off the wrapping paper. 'It's a classification book for you to fill with everything you discover. It has pre-printed tables, see'– she pointed to the pages Luna was shuffling through –'and I charmed it so it can save animal sounds. Just place the tip of your wand on this small symbol on each page to record something; then if you want to play the sound, just say "Resonus".'

'That's brilliant, Hermione,' said Ron.

'It is,' agreed Luna. 'Thank you.'

'Didn' expect nothin' less from our Hermione,' said Hagrid, patting her on the back and thus causing Hermione's chest to collide painfully with the edge of the table.

'So, how come you were late?' queried Ginny – Hermione pretended not to hear her.

'What have the others got you?' she asked Luna purposefully, but Ginny remarked, 'You're never late, Hermione.'

'I'm thirsty,' said Hermione, still ignoring the redhead.

'You can't avoid me forever, you know.'

'I feel like pumpkin juice –'

'Hermione!'

'What?' she snapped at last, glaring at Ginny before taking a deep breath as to calm herself down a notch. 'I'm sorry, Gin, but I don't want to talk about this right now. I was late; now I'm here – can we please move on?'

'Fine,' grumbled Ginny, although the look she gave her positively screamed: "I'm not done with you yet".

Hermione was relieved when Luna – entirely unfazed by her minor outburst – listed all the other gifts she'd got, while everyone else seemed to fall back into the conversations they had been engrossed in prior to her arrival.

'I got so much cake, too,' said Luna dreamily. 'Daddy made toffee pudding on Thursday, and I got date-and-honey treats from Nouha –'

'My mother,' interposed Rolf.

'– but this one here's my favourite'– Luna pointed at the half-eaten dessert in the middle of the table –'it's plum cake with cinnamon cream. Ginny made it. I love cinnamon, don't you?'

Hermione assured her that she did, helping herself to a slice – it truly was sublime. She couldn't help but picture her parents: horror-stricken faces over so much sugar.

'This is fantastic, Ginny,' she commended after a short while of blissful indulgence.

'I'll tell Mum you said that,' whispered Ginny, leaning over to her from beside Hagrid, who was now loudly discussing Manticores with Rolf. 'She made it. I'm hopeless when it comes to baking – that's one of the reasons I love having Kreacher around. He makes  _the_ best cakes.'

'His treacle tart is perfection,' agreed Hermione, taking another bite from Mrs Weasley's plum-and-cinnamon goodness.

'It is,' affirmed the redhead. 'He's making chocolate soufflé for tea – you should come over later, Hermione.'

Hermione didn't answer right away. She knew exactly why Ginny was inviting her – she wanted her to talk. Hermione, however, also needed information concerning legal matters on Polyjuice Potion, and Harry was the only one she would ask.

'Fine, I'll come with you later,' she yielded eventually, which earned her a smug grin spreading across a densely freckled face.

'I can't wait to hear the news,' said Ginny excitedly.

'Aren't there more important things to discuss other than my being late?'

'Like what?'

'Like the Faceless, for instance,' said Hermione. Harry, who was currently listening to Neville, turned round to her immediately; Neville, noticing as well, stopped talking mid-sentence.

'Sorry, I shouldn't have addressed that. You're off duty and now is not the time –'

'It's okay, Hermione,' said Neville. 'It's basically our lives now, anyway. I mean, I wanted to quit and prepare for the teaching post, but they won't let anyone out at the moment … it blows, mind, but it's more than understandable.'

'So … have you any news then?' asked Hermione.

'Well,' began Harry. 'News of attacks come in almost every day, but the recent victims have so far all been very careless or – well – completely oblivious to the danger … so Muggles. Remind me to talk to Kingsley about that later, will you?'– he looked at Neville, who nodded affirmatively –'Anyway, that doesn't change anything for them, of course. It's tragic either way – but we also have to look on the bright side, because it means that our precautions are a success. Here in Hogsmeade, for example, every corner is being monitored and secured – especially on a Hogwarts trip weekend like this. The same goes for all bigger wizarding villages and places; Diagon Alley should also be safe.'

'Good,' said Hermione, although she felt a nasty twinge in her gut at the mention of Diagon Alley. Of course she knew it had been Draco who was ambushed and forced to witness Padma's being kissed, yet it never occurred to her to think about what that truly meant for him.

'Also, we take strict security measures at all major events,' added Neville.

'Yeah, there are Ministry workers guarding our sodding locker rooms,' said Ginny. 'But I'm not complaining.'

'And you shouldn't be,' said Neville. 'Most people are safe at the moment, as long as they heed our advice.'

'Tha's all good, but yeh forget 'bout the children,' interjected Hagrid. 'There're wards round the castle, alright, so no Dementor can ge' in … but yeh should see some o' them kids – they're scared, they are. An' broken. I've bin tellin' them "Yeh got ter take care o' the students", an' Professor McGonagall is doin' her best. "It's not yer fault" I said, but she's blamin' herself still, even though she'd never admit tha' to anyone else.'

Hagrid took a big swig of his mead and carried on, 'They're cryin' alot, 'specially the younger ones. Some o' them older students try very hard to help, but yeh don' have ter be an expert ter see it's too much fer them.'

'What about you?' asked Ron – everyone at the table seemed to be listening all of a sudden.

'Oh, I'm fine, Ron, thanks fer askin'. S'pose they're not gettin' ter me tha' much … half-giant an' all. That's why I offered me help ter anyone who wants it. Some children come by ter talk – or cry … seem ter like bein' round Fang. But there's a curfew, too, yeh see. They're not allowed on the grounds past dinnertime. Not tha'  _that's_  ever stopped students from sneakin' out …'

He winked at all of them fondly upon which they exchanged sheepish smiles.

'Yeah …' said Harry, smirking, 'that sure never stopped us. Although  _we_ had an Invisibility Cloak.'

'Speaking of which –'

'Not now, Ginny,' hissed Hermione.

'Anyway,' said Hagrid, 'I reckon yeh can't do anythin' 'bout that right now. Some kids are just more sensitive than others – we can only hope tha' these bastards are soon gettin' caught.'

'Sadly, it's not that simple,' sighed Harry. 'They're good. Really good. They came out of hiding only to deliver their message, but it wasn't even a blackmail strategy, it was just a warning – no, a threat. And we still don't have anything on them, it's frustrating! There's no pattern as far as the Dementor attacks go … they appear to roam freely, more or less, and it's getting worse because they seem to grow in numbers. Not only here, but all over Europe. When the criminals themselves are involved, the targets are either Muggleborns or Muggles. Like that one guy said, they're trying to … what was it again?'

'End what the Dark Lord has begun.'

'Thanks, Neville. But – and I never thought I'd say this – this is even worse. They don't care at all about the people who die along in the process. It's … I don't even have words for it, anymore.'

Harry let his face fall into his hands, Ginny reaching up to pat his back.

'So … you don't have a lead, then?' asked Hermione gingerly.

'Not really,' said Neville, shaking his head. 'We captured a member of them a few days back. Appears like the victim managed to Stun her prior to … well – prior to being kissed. Although it seemed promising at first, she's not cooperating. We think she's from the Baltics, but we can't be sure – doesn't speak English or is not willing to, at least. Heinous woman, she is. Hateful. Spits and shrieks a lot. And apparently, she's fiercely loyal to their sick cause.'

'The thing is,' added Harry, 'they must have put their base under the Fidelius Charm – anything else would be careless – and as long as we don't find out where they're located, we have nothing on them, and they will keep coming.'

'Have you considered infiltrating them?' asked Luna.

'Of course we have. But that requires tedious planning, which we haven't completed yet. We can't go in unprepared, you see … as of now, we assume that they do background checks – you know, to make sure the applicant is truly supporting their twisted ideals.'

'Can we talk about something else, please?' interjected Hannah. 'I know this is important, but it's Luna's birthday, not a bloody security council meeting.'

'You're right,' agreed Hermione. 'Sorry for bringing it up.'

'Don't worry,' said Hannah, flashing her a warm smile, 'now – Rolf, Luna – when will you be going to Sweden, again?'

They spent the next few hours talking about anything which wasn't terror-related. Mostly discussing Luna and Rolf's travel plans, Hagrid's lessons, Ayano's first meeting with Molly and Arthur (which, apparently, had gone great), as well as Hannah's Healer training and Ginny's upcoming match against the Montrose Magpies the following day.

Hermione was beyond grateful that no one – not even the notoriously blunt Luna – brought up her romantic life. Only Ginny kept shooting her wary glances over the course of their get-together, a nuisance which Hermione wilfully overlooked. When everyone began to make their leave, however, she found she could no longer escape the redhead. No sooner had she stepped out of the Three Broomsticks than the newly engaged couple caught up with her.

'Hermione agreed to come with us, Harry, isn't that right, Hermione?' said Ginny with a smile too sweet to be real while slinging an arm through hers.

'Right,' she said curtly.

'There's lots we need to discuss,' said Ginny, ' _Lots_.'

'Fine,' yielded Hermione with a sigh. 'But I got a couple of questions, also.'

'Why don't we talk about all this over a slice of cake?' suggested Harry.

'How are you hungry again?' commented Hermione. 'You've only just had late breakfast  _and_ mounds of cake!'

Harry only shrugged. 'I don't know. Maybe it's because I know how good Kreacher's chocolate cake is.'

'It's soufflé, Harry, not cake,' said Ginny. 'But he's right, it's fantastic. I think Harry starts to like it better than treacle tart … sometimes I wonder what has become of the man I once proposed to …'

Hermione sniggered happily into her palm. It had been a wonderful day so far; the morning itself so glorious that it pushed her happiness level through the roof; quality time with her friends putting the cherry on the – admittedly many – cakes.

As soon as they had reached the road leading away from the village, they Apparated into number twelve, Grimmauld Place. Upon arriving, however, all three of them frowned in unison – something didn't feel right.

'Is that … a burnt smell?' asked Ginny.

Harry and Hermione both sniffed the air and nodded.

'It does smell burnt,' the Auror confirmed. 'Kreacher?'

No one answered. Curious, the elf normally appeared in next to no time.

'I think it's coming from the kitchen,' said Ginny, leading the way. 'Kreacher? Are you there?'

Again, nothing happened. An uneasy thought began to take shape in Hermione's mind, yet she chose to ignore it. Doing so became significantly harder when thick billows of smoke drifted from the kitchen door into the hall. She whipped out her wand, saying ' _Discindo_ ,' before the dense wads parted, allowing them access to the kitchen.

'It's the oven,' said Hermione, pointing her wand at it and turning it off with a flick. A black, charred mass was crumbling inside it.

'Oh no …' mumbled Ginny, and Hermione whirled around. It was then that her gaze fell upon the small figure sitting on a chair, its head rested on its arms, folded atop the kitchen table. He looked peaceful – big eyes closed and mouth slightly parted as though fast asleep. Hermione swallowed hard, her nose prickling while she stared at the old elf, finding herself unable to move. Harry and Ginny beside her were seemingly paralysed as well, and for a few long seconds, no one said a word. Hermione knew long before Harry finally walked up to Kreacher to take his pulse; his voice breaking when he spoke:

'He's dead.'


	14. Growing Attached

— CHAPTER FOURTEEN —

**_Growing Attached_ **

Draco was already counting the hours. He woke up far too early, chest swollen to accommodate his heart which had seemingly grown in size, in addition to which he was feeling all fidgety, bursting with energy after only a few hours of sleep.

5.48am

Too bloody early.

6.23am

Still too early to write her. When would be appropriate? He didn't want to come across needy.

6.50am

Draco was pacing his study. Restlessly. Whenever he tried to sit down, he would shift in his seat for a few minutes before standing up again, checking on the bubbling Sober-Up Potion far more often than the simple OWL-level concoction required. He felt like a child on Christmas morning; only he was waiting to see someone who easily outmatched every Christmas present he'd ever got put together. Someone who, he thought, was far too pure for him. He didn't like to paint the world in black and white, but Hermione Granger was – in his eyes – undoubtedly on "the good side". Ever fighting for what was right, never turning her back on anyone, always believing in people.

_Even in you._

7.20am

Maybe, just maybe, he could start writing. Draco sat down, foot tapping and quill in hand, but no sooner had he dipped it in ink than he heard a flapping noise – the telltale sound of his eagle owl landing atop the centre beam which separated lab from study. Altair spent most of his time outside but would return to the attic each morning, usually carrying a dead mouse in his beak. Draco stood to greet the old owl, which had been a loyal companion ever since he'd got it in the summer before his first year at Hogwarts.

'Hey, Al,' he said, looking up at the enormous bird who was returning his gaze with amber eyes. 'Your timing is impeccable, mate. I'll need you to deliver a letter soon.'

The owl hooted at that, which could have meant anything from agreement to protest to complete and utter indifference. What would Draco know? Only that Altair was particularly keen on Freo's Fiery Owl Crackers; Draco fishing one out of a nearby tin and passing Altair the spicy treat. Now _that_ was definitely a contented hoot.

Just as Draco was about to sit back down and get started on his letter, another pair of eyes peered at him through the window above his desk, causing him to jump.

_What did you expect – a Dementor? Dementors don't have eyes._

Or at least he assumed they didn't. No, the yellow orbs simply belonged to another owl. A handsome, yet ruffled looking snowy owl, which had landed on the shingles outside, carrying an envelope in its beak and apparently struggling to keep balance on the slanting roof. Draco opened the window at once, letting in the bird and with it, a gust of cold morning air which whipped at his face. The weather was so unpleasant the delivery owl didn't make the remotest move to go back outside once he'd accepted the letter. It was just staring at him, cawing.

'Fine, stay for a bit,' said Draco, pointing to his own bird's lair, upon which the snowy owl flapped its wings and settled itself next to Al. 'Be nice, will you?' he addressed him before he shook his head, questioning his own sanity because what did he expect? A bloody "sure, mate"?

Draco wasn't surprised to see that the letter was from Hermione – so much for worrying about coming across needy. When upon seeing her handwriting he felt excited, his expression faltered shortly as he soaked in her words:

_Dear Draco_

_I'm sorry, I have to cancel for today. I know we sort of made plans, but Kreacher passed away last night – the house-elf living with Harry and Ginny. I told you about him once. Anyway, I said I'd be there today; we're going to bury and commemorate him properly. Sorry again. I just have to be there for my friends now._

_Hermione_

_PS: this is my neighbour's owl. She tends to grow attached easily, so don't start feeding her unless you want a new roommate._

Draco lowered his hands. He was disappointed and at the same time cross with himself for being a selfish bastard. He tried to feel sorry for the elf, but he couldn't – if he was completely honest, he felt self-pity above anything else.

_You're such a sodding hypocrite._

One day he was supporting house-elf rights, the next he read about one dying and found he didn't care at all. In all fairness, however, he'd never even met that elf. Would it have been different had it been human? Probably not.

Draco forced himself to sit down and take a deep breath. Everything was perfectly fine. Yes, he had been excited about the prospect of seeing her again so soon, but not seeing her that day wasn't going to kill him. In fact, it might even be for the better – he shouldn't get used to her always being around so quickly. Draco looked up to where the snowy owl was enviously eyeing the prey beneath Altair's talons.

 _I'm the bloody owl_ , he thought dryly, wrinkling his nose – growing attached to the witch far too fast, while being jealous of those she spent time with instead of him; jealous even of a sodding stranger whom she apparently knew well enough to borrow their owl.

_Knock it out of your head – you're being ridiculous._

He was. He knew he was, and he would've gladly stopped but unfortunately, feelings were not an enchantment you could simply lift with a quick _Finite_. His thoughts and actions, however, Draco could control. Didn't he always claim to be prudent? The prudent thing to do right now was to answer Hermione's letter, express his condolences, and offer comfort. Another prudent thing to do – judging from her postscript – was to get rid of that clingy bird; fortunate was the circumstance of both intentions weaving together so nicely.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

They buried Kreacher in the back garden, right beneath an old pear tree, thus breaking the gruesome Black family tradition of beheading house-elves and hanging said heads onto the wall for display. The mere notion made Hermione shudder.

Her hand was still clutching Draco's letter which she kept in her pocket lest she forget the Floo password he'd given her. Not that she would; it was "brandy sour". She'd smiled at his choice – a reference to their very first date, reminding her once more that it'd been Draco all along.

Celestina – her neighbour's owl – had returned sooner than she'd had expected. Celestina. How naff of a name that was, but did she expect anything more creative or imaginative from Sally other than naming her owl after the famous singer? Sally Shunpike certainly wasn't the brightest candle on the cake, but she was nice, and Hermione appreciated her minding Crookshanks every once in a while whenever she was exceptionally busy.

'Should we go back inside?' suggested Luna, interrupting Hermione's train of thought. Her face was poking out from her hood, fair skin and pink cheeks framed by a mass of black, frizzy lining that reminded Hermione of a feather boa. No one voiced their reply, but all of them nodded, turning their backs to the freshly dug grave and re-entering the house.

Hermione hadn't expected so many people to show up, but here they were. Apart from Luna and the usual suspects – namely Harry, Ginny, Ron, and herself – George had come, along with Molly and Arthur. Even two elves working at the Hogwarts kitchens had momentarily left their posts to bid their farewell; Hermione noticed they were not following everyone else inside.

'Won't you be staying for supper?' she asked them. The little creatures only shook their heads in unison.

'We can't, Miss,' said the one whose name was Frinky. To Hermione's delight, she was wearing one of the hand-knit, knobbly hats she used to leave for the house-elves to take. 'We're expected back in the kitchens.' Frinky then raised her chin and said proudly in a high-pitched voice, 'It is our job, Miss.'

Hermione couldn't help but flash them a broad grin; seeing the fruit of her labour first hand was immensely satisfying.

'Thank you for coming then.'

'It is an honour to be here, Miss,' said the other elf, bowing down. 'Kreacher was one of the bravest elves Noppy ever met. To know that he is buried in Harry Potter's garden …'

'And Kreacher changed so much, Miss,' added Frinky, nodding enthusiastically which caused her floppy ears to wiggle about. 'When Frinky first met Kreacher, Kreacher didn't like her at all, oh no. He was always grouchy and complaining about being at Hogwarts, Miss. But in the end, he fought for what was right, and Kreacher and Frinky became friends.'

'I'm glad he had you two,' said Hermione. 'He will always be remembered for the steps he dared to take and the friendships he forged because of it.'

'Frinky couldn't have put it any better,' said the elf, taking a bow. 'We must be leaving now. Thank you, Miss Hermione Granger.' And with that, the two elves Disapparated in front of her.

As soon as Hermione went back inside to join the others, a small glass of Firewhisky was shoved into her hands.

'There you are,' said Ron. 'We're raising a toast.'

'To Kreacher.' The sound of their voices reverberated from the kitchen walls, conflating with the _chink_ of glass against glass. Hermione gulped down her drink reluctantly; the whisky had a pungent taste, and it burnt on her tongue. It also warmed her up from the inside out right away.

Two more rounds of Firewhisky shots later and Hermione's head began to spin. She suggested they eat before anyone came up with the idea of yet another toast; fortunately, everyone shared her opinion. Molly, Harry, and Hermione had put together a meal that could have fed an entire Quidditch team including substitutes and coaches – the table was creaking underneath the weight of countless pies and puddings, mounds of potatoes, beans, and peas, chicken legs and roast beef. They managed dessert only with great difficulty.

Arthur and Molly took their leave right after dinner, Luna and George quickly following suit. The trio and Ginny shortly retired to the upstairs living room, slouching on cosy sofas in their food and alcohol induced comatose.

'How did your match go today, Ginny?' Hermione directed at the redhead, who only pulled a wry face.

'Don't ask,' she replied. 'We played miserably – lost big-time, despite catching the Snitch, and that's saying something about the Chasers' performance. Mine was lacklustre at best – mildly put. I feel so bloody awful for not noticing that Kreacher was dying.'

'Don't blame yourself,' said Ron. 'He was old. It was only a matter of time.'

'And still, we didn't notice,' said Harry sombrely. 'We should have. Now that I think about it … he'd been so tired of late. But there's also been so much on our plates that we didn't see it …'

'Anyone fancy another drink?' Ginny suggested abruptly, however, she did not even bother to wait for an answer, instantly Summoning a bottle of wine and four glasses.

'Why did I agree to this again?' commented Hermione as she accepted the glass that was now hovering in front of her.

'Because you care about us,' said Ginny nonchalantly before downing the content of her glass all at once.

'I do,' confirmed Hermione, taking a sip. 'I mean, I cancelled my date for being with you lot.'

'Date?' Ron shot her a bewildered glance.

'Yeah, Hermione, what date?' added Ginny, tilting her head and cocking both eyebrows.

_Oh no. Have I really just said that?_

'Um … just … er …'

'Are you back with Leon?' Ron probed. 'I liked the chap. Till he dumped you, that is. He'd better have a good reason.'

Oh, if he had even the faintest idea … would Ron still like "the chap" if he knew who he was? Hermione could only imagine how vexed her friend (and ex-boyfriend) would be about her being with Draco. She definitely needed more wine now, mimicking Ginny and tossing down her drink before holding out her glass demandingly.

'No, Ron, I'm not back with Leon,' she lied – although, technically, it was only half a lie.

'Who is it then?'

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her seat, trying to figure out a way to wriggle herself out of this predicament. Telling them was no option; nor was lying to them, but she had to pick the lesser evil.

'I don't know,' she said, settling for the story that had unprecedentedly come to mind. 'My neighbour Sally wanted to set me up with a friend.'

'So a blind date?' queried Ginny incredulously.

'Exactly.'

'You know nothing about him then?' asked Ron.

'Nothing.'

'Bloody hell … but Hermione – don't you always complain how Sally's thick as a brick? Why'd you agree to go out with one of her friends?'

'Um …'

'Oh Ronald,' said Ginny, her lips curling into a roguish grin. 'By that logic, Hermione could never be friends with a buffoon – yet here you are.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

They sat together for the entire evening, revelling in memories, laughing at each other's expense, and drinking more than they could possibly stomach – more bottles of wine kept appearing out of nowhere until Ginny confessed she was "borrowing" them from a shop nearby.

'Please, they won't notice,' she said with a dismissive slice of her hand. 'They're closed – besides, Muggles never notice anything, _trust_ me.'

'We're drinking _stolen_ goods?' said Hermione indignantly, but sipping her wine all the same. 'You're unbelievable.'

'Why, thank you very much,' said Ginny, raising her glass and emptying it in one gulp. 'But, technically, it's not stealing, we're _leasing_ it. I'm going to pay for it eventually, you see … well, _maybe_ I will'– she let out an exasperated groan –'alright, alright, Hermione, I'm _definitely_ going to pay them, just quit looking at me like that!'

'Guys,' began Ron, slowly turning his head to give each one of them a stern look, 'you do realise we've all got to work tomorrow, don't you?'

'Oh no …' sighed Hermione. 'It's Sunday! How did that happen?'

'Well, first came Friday, then … Saturday – and today … it's Sunday,' explained Harry.

'Wow, you always speak so _wisely_ , Harry,' teased Ginny, mooning over him and puckering her lips. 'Although I like it better when you talk dirty –'

'Aaand that's my cue,' announced Ron, hauling himself out of the armchair but swaying in the process. 'Don't want to risk seeing any of'– he gesticulated wildly at his sister and best friend –'that. If our sixth year hasn't scarred me enough …'

'Says the one whose lips were glued to Lav-Lav's,' mocked Ginny, now smooching air kisses at him. 'Oh, Won-Won …'

'Shut it, Ginny,' grumbled Ron, his face turning beet red. 'Anyway, gotta go. See ya'

'The fireplace is the other way, Ronald,' Ginny called after him, shaking her head. 'Honestly, you'd think he's here for the first time. Now'– she suddenly turned to Hermione, lowering her tone in a semblance of dramatics –'the time has come at last.'

'Time for what?' asked Hermione, voice layered with false cluelessness.

'Time for the truth, of course,' said Ginny as matter-of-factly as her drunk state allowed. 'Don't play innocent. We know you've planned to go on a date today, and don't you dare come up with another lousy excuse. _Blind date_ … please! And you were _conspicuously_ late yesterday. We also know that _Leon_ '– she put the name in air quotes –'is not the real deal. So … who is he?'

'I don't know.'

'You suck at lying when you're drunk, Hermione – no offence,' said Harry, regarding her with a pitiful look.

'Alright, fine, I _do_ know. But I can't say anything.'

'Why not?' asked Ginny.

'Because I can't, that's why.'

'Alright … don't tell us. But you can answer me this: have you been out with … that mystery bloke – it is a bloke, right?'

Hermione nodded.

'So, have you been out with him on Valentine's Day?'

Hermione nodded again.

'Have you …' Ginny grinned maliciously. 'Have you, you know –'

'Ginny!' said Hermione hotly, her admonishing tone soon undermined by a single, rogue hiccough.

'Is that a yes?'

Hermione felt heat rushing to the open book that apparently was her face now.

'It _is_ a yes,' grinned the redhead, patting her shoulder. 'Good on you.'

'Why do you care so much?' she asked.

'Because, Hermione, you're my friend. Besides,' Ginny flipped her hair back, 'I couldn't talk about _that_ with you back when you were seeing my brother … worst two and a half years of my life, hands down.'

'Trust me, she complained a lot,' confirmed Harry before treating himself to another swig of his Firewhisky.

'And everything in between was just not that … serious,' added Ginny. 'And don't try to deny it, I know this is not just another one of these "Oh, you know, he's nice" kinds of bloke.'

'You're right … he isn't.'

'So? Who is he? Please, Hermione, _please_.'

'I told you, I can't say! I promised.'

'You … promised?' echoed Ginny, her expression becoming perilously smug. 'Interesting.'

'Interesting how?' queried Hermione.

'Harry,' said Ginny, turning to her fiancé, 'switch on your Auror-mode. It's time for a deduction.'

'Hm?' made Harry, only slowly meeting her gaze while blinking a few times in a row. 'Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.'

'Are you ever?' chided Ginny. 'Honestly, how _are_ you good at your job? Anyway – I can do this on my own. Hermione, get ready to be amazed.'

Hermione only shifted in her seat. Could Ginny possibly deduce from one little word?

'Alright,' said the redhead, placing her glass onto the coffee table and exhaling sharply. 'You said you _promised_ you wouldn't tell. He doesn't want us to know. In fact, it's so important to him that we don't know that he made you promise. That means he knows us. And we know him in return. Meaning, he's either close to us, which I doubt, honestly – because none of us qualify at the moment – or we're not particularly what you'd consider friends.'

Hermione tried to keep a straight face but found it incredibly hard what with the intoxicated state she was in.

'He was … at Hogwarts with us,' stated Ginny, carefully searching Hermione's face for a reaction. 'Ha! I'm right – you flinched!'

'I did not!'

'Yes, you did! So, probably from your year, I assume … someone who would not want Harry to kno-oh my.'

Ginny's eyes widened with sudden realisation.

'Oh … I remember now,' she said. 'What you've told us on witches' night. About – you know – _someone_ asking you out.'

'Who asked you out?' interjected Harry, but Ginny only made a swatting motion with her hand, never breaking eye-contact with Hermione.

'Merlin's beard, Hermione! _Him_? Is it really him?'

Hermione swallowed hard. Agreeing with Ginny wasn't technically telling them, or was it? Without thinking twice, she nodded her head ever so slightly.

'Yes!' cried Ginny, flexing her arm victoriously. 'This is gold –'

'Would you please tell me what's going on?' asked Harry, ignored yet again.

'Hermione, I am _shocked_!' continued the redhead. 'Delighted … but shocked! You must tell me _everything_! How was he –'

'Who?'

'Harry,' Ginny clicked her tongue, 'If you really must know …'

Hermione frowned at her first but shortly shrugged in resignation. If Harry really wanted to set his mind to it, he'd find out regardless.

'Brace yourself: Hermione is seeing … give me a drumroll, Hermione!'

'Not a chance.'

'Boring! Anyway, Harry. Brace yourself, alright? You'll need it. Because Hermione is seeing …'

'Spit it out, woman!'

Ginny may as well have been announcing the winner of the Triwizard Tournament with how she beamed wildly, flailing out her arms and putting far too much emphasis on the name itself:

'Draco Malfoy!'

Harry's eyebrows scooted up so high Hermione could swear they fused with his hairline. He didn't say a word. He just looked back and forth between her and Ginny, his expression varying between disbelief and indignation.

'Malfoy?' he questioned eventually, absolutely flabbergasted. 'What – how – _Malfoy_?'

'Yes, Harry,' sighed Hermione. 'It's him.'

'Hang on – _he's_ Leon? A bloody reporter?' Harry burst into laughter – a reaction Hermione would not have anticipated. 'Malfoy … I've been giving interviews to _Malfoy_ … Ron's told me that he thought you've finally met a decent bloke! All this time, it's been fucking Malfoy –'

'Speaking of _fucking Malfoy_ –'

'Ginny!' exclaimed Hermione. Yet before she could say anything else, Harry beat her to it, his inflection morphing from amused incredulousness into disgust within the blink of an eye.

'You _what_? Ugh … Hermione!'

'Excuse me, Harry, but this is none of your business,' she said with as much poise as she could muster.

'Yes, Harry, leave it,' said Ginny. 'Don't ruin this for me. So'– she wiggled her eyebrows –'how was it?'

'I'm not going to discuss this with you right now – neither of you!' Hermione stood for effect, instantly regretting it, seeing as she momentarily blacked out, view blurred and head throbbing. 'Okay, that wasn't such a great idea,' she admitted as soon as she'd sat back down. 'Oh, my head … what have I done?'

'Yeah, what have you done?' echoed Harry.

'Malfoy, apparently,' sniggered Ginny.

'I was talking about _that_ ,' groaned Hermione, pointing at the collection of empty wine bottles. 'I don't regret anything that has to do with Draco –'

'So it's Draco now –'

'I stand corrected,' Hermione cut Harry off. 'I don't regret anything other than ever confiding in you two –'

'Hey,' said Harry, leaning forward and flashing her a serious look, the effect of which was only slightly undermined by the alcohol-induced shimmer coating his eyes. 'Sorry. Hermione … I'm sorry. I was being an idiot. You can always talk to me; you know that.'

'Can I? Because it doesn't seem like it.'

'C'mon, Hermione, did you really expect me to react any different? I mean … yes, it's none of my business. But you have to admit; he's not exactly been nice to you in the past. To either of us. For Godric's sake, he broke my nose once! Not mentioning all the other bullshit –'

'I know –'

'And I get that he's moved on from all that – it's been a long time, and I defended him in court, because even back then I knew he deserved a second chance. But still … just imagine: what would you say if Ron were seeing – let's say … Pansy Parkinson?'

'Ugh … oh hell no,' said Hermione, scrunching up her face.

'See? That's what I'm talking about.'

'Fair enough,' yielded Hermione, all of the sudden feeling very small. Harry was right – Draco's past wasn't exactly unblemished, and she knew that, of course; however, over the past weeks, everything he'd ever done to hurt her or her friends became sort of blurred – unreal, like snapshots out of someone else's life. All she saw was the man he was now. And yet, it didn't make them less of an odd couple (were they a couple?), and she had to admit to herself that Harry's reaction could have been much worse. His reaction to her breaking her word. 'I promised I wouldn't tell,' she muttered after a while.

'Technically, you didn't,' said Harry, smiling at her reassuringly, 'you didn't directly tell us anything.'

'But I let slip that we were meant to see each other today –'

'Oh, as if Ginny wouldn't have grilled you on that either way.'

'He's right. I would've,' smirked the redhead. 'By the way, sorry for giving you such a hard time yesterday. I shouldn't have pushed you so much in front of everyone.'

'Thank you,' mumbled Hermione, shoulders drooping and staring at her feet. For some reason, she felt immensely sad. Pictures began to flash in front of her eyes: Kreacher, lifeless; Dobby, in Harry's arms; Draco, not "Leon", leaving her all alone in the cold … 'What time is it?' she asked eventually, looking at Harry.

'Just past half eleven,' he said after a glance at his watch.

'I thought it'd be later,' yawned Ginny.

'Me too,' said Hermione, standing up – slowly, this time. Her head wasn't swimming as much as before, but she still felt queasy. 'Thanks for having me.'

'Thank you for staying with us all day, Hermione,' said Harry. 'You ditched Malfoy for us, after all.'

Hermione flinched at that. 'I didn't … I mean, we didn't even specify when we'd see each other.'

'Still, you decided to be with us, and we appreciate that,' said the redhead. 'You're going to see him now, aren't you?'

Hermione nodded sheepishly.

'Are you sure that's a good idea?'

'I don't know,' shrugged Hermione. 'I – I just … I never thought I'd say this, but I like him.'

'Oh, I know you do, love,' smiled Ginny, getting up (albeit with difficulty) and pulling her into a warm embrace. Her hair smelt like a field of wild flowers.

'Please don't tell anyone,' Hermione muttered into the fiery red tresses. 'I don't want him to get into trouble …'

'We won't,' said Ginny before letting go of her. 'Promise.'

'No one's going to suspect anything,' said Harry. 'And no, I won't spill. I have to hand it to him, he's turned out rather decent, from what I can tell – considering that he used to be the greatest git ever to walk the earth.'

'Thank you,' said Hermione, unable to suppress a snigger at the memory of the slimy prat Draco was as a boy. 'That means a lot.'

'Now, off you pop,' smirked Ginny. 'And say hi, will you? Tell him that, should he decide to leave you again, he will suffer my eternal wrath. Make sure to remind him just how good my Bat Bogey Hex is.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

The clock indicated 11.47pm. Maybe he should try and get some sleep. Draco was sitting at his desk, several pieces of parchment strewn across it. He'd been taking notes for hours, desperately trying to find an answer to the vexing question of what he was going to do now – because he couldn't just keep on as if nothing had happened. Everything had changed within a few days and Draco knew he had to quit his double life. It was time to move on from that. But how?

So far, he had two options: he could either let Leon disappear completely – quitting his job and telling everyone he was going back to France. That, however, would leave him with nothing. Nothing he'd ever written could be used as a reference from that point on, and he'd have to start all over. His second option, coming out with the truth to his boss, would have entirely different repercussions; in the worst possible case, a lawsuit and with it, public humiliation. It would not only harm himself, but also Hermione – she did not sign up for dating an offender on top of an ex-Death Eater; not to mention the tribulations his mother would have to bear.

Draco cursed himself for being so utterly short-sighted back when he started it all. He just never thought he would get wound up in his occupation so much, let alone set the ball rolling for a relationship with Hermione Granger.

Right on cue, Draco heard his fireplace blaze up downstairs.

'Draco?'

It was unmistakably Hermione's voice which cut the silence, resonating all the way up to him. Draco's heart skipped a beat – she had actually taken heed of his offer to drop by anytime.

'Up here,' he answered, shoving back his chair and rushing down the staircase, all but running into her small frame standing in the doorway.

'I didn't know you had an upstairs,' she said bemusedly; her speech was a tad slurred, and Draco could smell wine on her breath, her brown eyes glazed over ever so slightly.

'Are you drunk?' he asked.

'No?' It was more of a question than an answer; Draco suspiciously cocking an eyebrow and Hermione's face flashing over with resignation. 'Maybe?'– he took a step back and by withdrawing his support provoking Hermione to sway on the spot –'nope, definitely am.'

Draco came back to rescue, holding her in place and finding himself unable to resist an amused smirk.

'You definitely had one too many,' he chuckled. 'Possibly more than one, by the looks of it.'

'My chest hurts,' she wailed, snuggling closer and burying her face in his jumper. 'Ginny nicked too much wine …'

'Is that so?'

Hermione only hummed affirmatively without explaining her friend's act of pilfering any further. Draco felt her clutch at his clothes, getting heavier what with leaning her entire weight against him.

'C'mon, let's get you to bed, yeah?' he proposed. Hermione nodded, her hair tickling his chin in the process, however, she did not show the slightest inclination to move. Well then, she didn't leave him a choice. Without further ado, Draco bent his knees a smidge, wrapping his arms around her hips and lifting her off her feet.

Hermione mumbled something incoherent as he carried her to his bedroom – most likely a feeble attempt at convincing him that she was capable of walking. Of course she would have been; she wasn't _that_ pissed. But Draco had to admit to himself that he rather enjoyed taking care of the ever so feisty and independent witch. He felt needed, and it felt good.

'There you go,' he said as he set her down on his bed, already reaching for her shoes when she bent forward, softly swatting his hand out of the way.

'No, thank you … it's fine. I'm fine. I'm –'

Hermione suddenly stopped babbling. Instead, her breaths came out slightly rattled.

'I'm … I'm sorry,' she muttered, voice quavering.

'What for? Hey, look at me.' Draco sat down beside her, gently running his hand over her back. When she sat up straight and turned her face towards him, Draco saw the frown on her face; her lips pressed together tightly to keep them from trembling.

She opened and shut her mouth a few times before saying, 'I messed up … they know.' With that, she broke into tears. 'You asked me to keep it a secret,' she sobbed, 'you trusted me, and I betrayed you …'

'Bollocks,' said Draco, brushing his thumb across her cheek, trying to calm her while inside, he felt anything but – a storm was waging in his mind. Who knew exactly? And how much?

'I didn't do it on purpose,' she blubbered out. 'I didn't say anything, but Ginny figured it out because of something I said weeks ago.'

'Who else knows?'

'Harry.'

_Of course._

'Back when you asked me to have lunch with you … I told Ginny and Luna about it. Then yesterday, I was late, and I'm _never_ late … so tonight she just connected the dots when I – oh I'm so sorry,' she wept, meeting his gaze with brown orbs swimming in tears. 'I didn't mean to –'

'Why do you keep apologising?'

'I don't know,' she snivelled. 'Sorry –'

'Now you're saying sorry for saying sorry,' said Draco with a breathed chuckle and a wag of his head. 'Just don't, okay?'

'Okay.'

He smiled at her then, and Hermione mirrored his expression, although he didn't fail to notice that it didn't extend to her eyes. Regardless, she was pretty – even all flustered like this. Flustered because her friend unravelled a secret he'd asked her to keep. She was breaking into tears over the notion of betraying him when he had done so much worse in the past. The past which was still clawing at his present with slimy hands …

_Don't go down that road right now._

'Come on, you need to go to sleep,' he said, getting up and fetching the clothes he had given her the day prior. They were still draped over the back of a chair; keeping them laid out a reminder of all the beautiful things Hermione Granger made him feel.

Watching her change was odd; every inch of her body was beautiful, yet his blood was pooling in his heart alone – Draco's concern for her well-being outweighed his physical needs by far. Hermione sat back with him, a lonely and silent tear now trickling down her cheek until it rested below her chin like a drop of water forming underneath a tap and about to fall at any given moment.

'I –' she began, but Draco interrupted her.

'Please don't apologise again. What's done is done. We don't have to talk about this right now.'

'I wasn't going to – it's just that … _ugh_ – why can't I stop crying?' she groaned before breaking out into even harder sobs. 'I – I don't know why … I shouldn't – you … you're taking care of me, and I'm the – the biggest liability ever –'

'No you aren't. Don't say that.' Draco wiped away a tear with his thumb, eliciting another one of her sad smiles. 'You just had a bit too much to drink, is all.'

He kissed her forehead before standing up to change into his own pyjamas. He, too, should at least try and get some rest. Maybe with her by his side, entangled in his arms, he would actually stand a chance at falling asleep without having to use a potion. Hermione's presence had that effect, and Draco knew he shouldn't grow too attached by getting used to it – she wouldn't always be there to share his bed – but she was becoming an ever so addicting drug.

'I did have too many drinks,' she said quietly after a little while, a subtle twang in her voice the betrayer of recently dried up tears. 'But that doesn't excuse being a complete idiot.'

'Why would you say that?' asked Draco, searching her face, but Hermione was staring at her hands. She only shrugged when he said, 'you're not an idiot. You just lost a friend; you're sad and a bit drunk. It's only human.'

Then Hermione levelled her gaze with his.

'And what decent human being bursts in on their boyfriend like that?'

 _Their_ what _?_

Draco felt like he had just touched a Portkey; his head was spinning and his insides writhed as if pushed together by an invisible force, all the while pulling him into the void. _It's the alcohol talking_ , he thought, trying to find a reasonable explanation as to why Hermione Granger had just so casually labelled their relationship. _She's only drunk and upset and vulnerable_. Of course he wanted what she said to be real, but what if she hadn't been thinking clearly? He swallowed hard before voicing the half-hearted attempt at convincing her to row back and unsay her statement. A statement which, he had to admit, made him feel as though the Whomping Willow had lodged itself within his ribcage, pounding every shred of common sense out of him because Salazar be damned, he didn't want her to take it back.

'Um … Hermione – I – um … we've only been on one date.'

'No we haven't,' she objected matter-of-factly, floundering the duvet away before lying down and pulling it back up to settle herself underneath. Draco watched her as if paralysed, trying to ignore the two-syllable label that was still ringing in his ears. 'We went out before that. You met my friends … well, sort of. We even kissed before …' There was something glittering in her eyes again – Hermione put on a stern expression and breathed steadily as if to force back the tears.

'But it wasn't me – I mean, for you it wasn't,' Draco sputtered. He sat down at the edge of the bed, turning towards her.

'Yes it was – when I think back I cannot _not_ see you! I never think of that other name or those other looks … all I see is you now.'

In addition to the imaginary Portkey making his head swim, a Bludger had just found its way to his solar plexus, numbing his senses and stealing his breath – in a good way.

_Too good to be true._

As if she were able to sense his uncertainty, Hermione pulled at his sleeve and thus – unknowingly – at the strings to his very core.

'Budge up,' said Draco, pushing her shoulder softly, upon which the brunette made space for him to lie down next to her, not hesitating to move closer as soon as he'd joined her under the blanket. Her nose was almost touching his.

'I – I missed you so much.'

'I'm right here.'

'No,' she whispered. 'I meant when … when you left me.'

'But –'

'No, I missed _you_ , you idiot,' she objected before he could set the ball of disbelief rolling again. 'Your smell. Your sarcasm. The way you looked at me …'

Hermione snuggled closer and buried her face in his chest, Draco wrapping his arms around her and inhaling her scent. He could tell by her decelerating breaths that she was in the process of falling asleep.

'Can you stay?' she mumbled.

'This is _my_ bed, Hermione,' chortled Draco, tightening his grip around her, a gesture which was met with an approving humming sound. 'Of course I will.'

'I still need to brush my teeth.'

'It won't kill you if you skip it once.'

'But it's important … Mum and Dad … they'd always make sure I …' Hermione kept muttering, her speech growing more incoherent by the second until she eventually drifted off to sleep. Draco smiled into her hair. His _girlfriend's_ hair. Who would have known that one innocent word could possess the power to make him momentarily forget about all the obstacles he had yet to face? In that very moment, they didn't matter. In that very moment, he might have been the happiest man in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Much. Fluff. Hope you didn't mind!
> 
> I'm on tumblr now! If you're interested, look for ph1n0a. You will find a few Faceless aesthetics on there as well as a super short story about eleven-year-old Draco getting his owl. I was thinking about its name so I knocked out a mini-piece, which felt too short to post here.
> 
> As always, a huge thank you to MalfoysMuggleMrs – my better half, as it were. The new Obsessed chapter will be published soon, so stay tuned! Also, both of us have been nominated for the Granger Enchanted Awards Summer 2017; for more info, check out my tumblr or the respective Facebook group.
> 
> Until next time, Phinoa


	15. Lion at Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relatively spoiler-free TRIGGER WARNING: “memmortigon” – use a translation tool of your choice if you want to know what’s coming. In any case, proceed at your own risk.

— CHAPTER FIFTEEN —

**_Lion at Heart_ **

‘Hermione?’

She groaned into her pillow, clutching the blanket tightly in anticipation of it being ripped away, however, no such cruel deed was performed.

‘Hermione? C’mon, you need to get up and go to work.’

Draco’s voice was calm and soothing. Hermione turned around sluggishly and was met with soft grey eyes as well as a friendly smile. He sat on the edge of his bed, already fully dressed.

‘Hey,’ she mumbled. Her face was hot, and she felt the sudden need to cast a Cooling Charm onto her puffy eyes.

‘Hey to you, too,’ he chuckled, tucking a strand of hair away from her face.

‘My head …’ Hermione complained as she sat up. Sitting up – what a cumbersome necessity.

‘Here, drink this,’ said Draco, handing her a glass filled to the brim with a clear, indigo liquid – the most perfect batch of Sober-Up Potion she’d ever seen.

‘Thank you,’ she said before downing the concoction; it tasted like peppermint mouthwash, immediately alleviating her headache and dipping her into an imaginary ice-bucket.

‘I would have given you that last night, but it wasn’t ready until this morning. Feel any better?’

‘Vastly,’ answered Hermione. ‘I …’ she began, biting her lip, ‘I’m sorry I barged in on you like that.’

‘Don’t worry about it – seriously, you’re fine. And stop saying you’re sorry, okay? You really don’t have to be.’

‘Okay,’ she said sheepishly, remembering her incessant apologising from the night prior.

‘Now, there’s tea and toast in the kitchen,’ said Draco. He pushed himself off the mattress, but not before giving Hermione a kiss, the sweetness of which sent tingles down her spine. ‘We’ll talk later, alright?’

‘Alright – are you going like this?’ Hermione scanned the blond, who still looked very much like Draco Malfoy. He shook his head, extracting from his robe’s pocket a small phial which contained a viscous, teal fluid.

‘Didn’t want to give you a scare,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to imagine how you would’ve reacted to seeing … well – you know.’

‘Yeah … that would have surely messed with my hungover head,’ said Hermione, flashing him a lopsided smile. ‘Thank you for not doing that – and thanks for waking me up.’ She flung the duvet aside and added, ‘I don’t want to be sent to the Centaur Office after all.’

‘Beg your pardon?’

‘It's just an inside joke in my department,’ she sniggered. ‘Means getting sacked.’

‘Oh, as if they’d ever sack you,’ said Draco, his signature smirk lighting up his features. ‘You’re far too brilliant and famous and …’ He trailed off as Hermione stood up to stretch herself, his gaze almost tangibly raking over her body.

‘And?’

‘Nevermind.’ He looked at her endearingly. ‘I’ve got to run – take care, will you?’

‘You too.’

Draco pecked her lips once more before turning on his heels and closing the door behind him, his footfalls soon fading away. Hermione couldn’t help but perform a little dance. The unfortunate string of events of the previous day aside, she felt a gush of happiness surge through her, every cell within her body brimming with mirth and vibrant with energy. Of course it might have been the lingering effect of the potion, but Hermione knew better. She fancied Draco. Immensely so. Draco Malfoy, whom she had declared her boyfriend mere hours prior. And if she wasn’t utterly deluded, he fancied her back.

The little breakfast he’d left her spoke that language, at least. Hermione took the time to eat before she would Floo over to her place to shower and get ready for work. Draco was right; of course they wouldn’t boot her out for being late, especially considering that it would be a first- and one-time occurrence. She’d simply work an extra hour, or skip lunch. She wasn’t particularly hungry anyway, what with her stomach being aflutter more often than not these days.

Just as Hermione was about to walk up to the fireplace, something in the corner of her eye drew her attention. A plain door to her right stood slightly ajar, Hermione recalling the events from the previous night and how Draco had come rushing down a staircase – the staircase behind that particular door.

_ Don’t go snooping around _ , her inner voice cautioned, though Hermione’s curiosity got the better of her. She shot a glance over her shoulder as if fearing to get caught before pushing the door open and climbing the spiral stairs. The sight offered didn’t surprise her in the slightest.

Naturally, there would be a potions lab – she should have known. He needed a place for brewing all that Polyjuice. Besides, Hermione had known long before her discovery of his identity that he harboured a pronounced proclivity for that particular subject. The workbenches were well organised; everything seemed to have its place, and Hermione could tell right away that Draco hadn’t spared any cost – the shelves underneath the roof all but burst with rare and expensive ingredients.

It was a tempting sight – it’d been a while since she’d had access to a proper lab, and she’d always loved following instructions meticulously for the best possible outcome. She’d have loved the subject even more if Snape hadn’t been bullying her and the others so much.

_ Not just Snape. _

The unwelcome voice was back, this time more nagging. Hermione didn’t need the internal reminder of all the pain her now-boyfriend had once put her through, thank you very much. Forgive and forget – everything else would only drive her barmy.

A hoot suddenly ripped her from the disconcerting train of thought. Hermione jumped, whirling around to locate its source until her eyes flickered up to meet a pair of amber orbs. She recognised the eagle owl from her school days straight away; its stupendous size made it difficult to miss.

‘Hello,’ she said carefully, retreating back to where she had come from. ‘Sorry for disturbing you.’

The eagle owl only continued to glare down at her, spinning its head further around with each step she took; Hermione construed it as a sign to leave. She shot a quick glance at the other half of the attic – by all indications Draco’s study – and was just about to go back downstairs when a garish blue something caught her eye. Hermione ignored the owl's palpable stare and approached the dustbin. Inside lay a crinkled piece of paper; she picked it up and flattened the pamphlet, which read in a bold face: “MINISTRY SECURITY ADVICE: THE PATRONUS CHARM”.

The conclusion hit home right away, her own question from several weeks ago replaying in her head:  _ “Have you started practising yet?” _

He’d claimed he had.  _ Claimed _ . Holding in her hands this specific flyer, found crumpled-up in his wastebin, she had to assume otherwise – it wasn’t difficult to connect the dots. They had never talked about it; back when she didn’t know about his true identity, she had simply assumed he’d be able to cast a Patronus. In hindsight, that assessment had strongly been based on superficialities – just because someone was sophisticated and intelligent didn’t mean they mastered the complex spell by default.

As sophisticated and intelligent Draco actually was, he also wore a label Hermione would rather ignore altogether: former Death Eater. There, she conceded the fact. It was one thing to tell him it didn’t matter as to assuage his uncertainties; another entirely to convince her own, stubborn mind. And while it was, by all indications, not deterring them from being together, it certainly posed an obstacle for him still – a quite literal one at that, as regards to the Patronus Charm.

Such an essential spell these days; the only real weapon against Dementors. Someone who wasn’t capable of producing a Patronus was in lethal danger with every step they took outside of secured spaces. How could that particular fact have slipped her mind?

It was curious, really, how peril always seemed to gain a weird sense of normality over time, as though things had never been any different – hearing of new attacks became a bizarre part of everyday life, people were getting used to it. Unlike with the first attacks, now everyone just took in the news as if it were weather reports, the only distinction being a bitter aftertaste and a second of sympathetic silence.

Hermione's thoughts suddenly switched to Padma, and she felt her heart grow heavy. Draco must have tried to protect her but failed; she didn’t want to imagine what it did to him. She lowered the pamphlet, crumpling it up and putting it back into the dustbin. They would have to talk about it. And not just talk – she would help. Helping with learning spells was her thing, regardless how impossible the task may seem. She’d figure out a way, surely; she always did.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

_ Alright Draco, this is it. _

He stood in front of Barnabas Cuffe’s office, about to make a significant change. As fond as he was of his occupation, it wasn’t a priority at this point, and he knew he had to quit the double life once and for all. It was the right decision; still, he felt rather twitchy when he knocked on the door.

‘Oh good, Mr Boswell,’ said his soon-to-be ex-boss once Draco had set foot in the office, not even taking into account that Draco was the one who had sought him out on his own accord. ‘Just the man I was looking for! Now, I know the past weeks have been stressful, and all, and I understand completely if Miss Granger has slipped your mind –’

_ Oh, if only you knew. _

‘– but I think it’s about time for another article, don’t you agree?’

Draco cleared his throat. ‘With all due respect, Sir, I do not.’

Cuffe raised his eyebrows at that; Draco had never expressed dissent before when it came to his superior.

‘I didn’t come to discuss this subject, Sir,’ he carried on when the older wizard remained silent. ‘I am here to hand in my resignation.’

‘Why, Mr Boswell, colour me surprised,’ said Cuffe, shifting in his chair. ‘Would you mind telling me the reason for the sudden change of heart?’

‘Actually, Sir, I would,’ said Draco. ‘It is a private matter. I will be going back to France.’

‘What a shame … let me tell you; this is rather unexpected.’ Cuffe leaned forward, intertwining his fingers as to rest his chin upon them. ‘You’re an aspiring writer – probably the best we’ve had in a long time.’

‘Thank you, Sir.’

‘And while you didn’t give any notice,’ he continued as if Draco hadn’t said anything. ‘I am willing to overlook the formalities and write you a letter of recommendation all the same.’

‘Thank you, but that won’t be necessary,’ said Draco. ‘I don’t need one.’

‘You don’t?’ Cuffe questioned. ‘I must admit, you keep surprising me. You do know that it will be most beneficial for any future applications?’

‘I do. But my plans for the future differ from what you might expect, Sir.’

Cuffe clicked his tongue. ‘Now that’s just talent thrown away.’

‘I’m aware,’ said Draco sourly. He seriously didn’t need this man to spell it out for him.

‘Well then,’ Cuffe inflated his cheeks and blew the air back out importantly, ‘I assume you are familiar with the procedure at hand?’

Draco nodded. ‘I’ll pack my things, sign a form that I will keep internal matters confidential, and hand it over to Bridget along with my termination notice.’

‘Precisely. Now,’ Cuffe stood, extending his hand, which Draco shook firmly. ‘I can’t say I do not resent your leaving this place. You’ve been quite the asset.’

Draco thanked him once more before saying good bye and leaving behind a fragment of his life. As he passed Bridget the required papers half an hour later, he could see her eyes gloss over.

‘I still can’t believe you’re leaving,’ she said quietly. ‘And you won’t even say why.’

Draco bit the inside of his cheek. He wanted to tell her. He really did. Bridget was quite fond of him, and ever since the attack on Padma, she’d taken care of him like a mother would. But Bridget had no idea. Not only was Draco uncertain about entrusting her with his secret, but he also didn’t want to lay that burden on her. She was a law-abiding witch; surely disclosing the truth would put her in an awkward position, not to mention that she might feel compelled to actually report him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said for what felt like the thousandth time.

‘Will you at least write me sometime?’ she asked, pressing her lips together.

‘I –’

‘Oh, never mind – why would a young chap like you write an old bat like me?’ Her hand sliced the air as if to signal a lack of caring, although Draco knew better. He pulled Bridget into a warm hug and muttered, ‘Thank you. For everything.’

‘I hope you find whatever it is you seek,’ she sniffed as Draco released her from his embrace.

‘I believe I already have.’

‘Oh, now I see,’ said Bridget, realisation flashing over her face. ‘Is it a witch?’

‘You might be onto something there,’ he said.

‘She must be one hell of a witch then.’

Draco chuckled, picturing the beautiful, dimpled smile that was Hermione Granger’s.

‘You bet.’

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

In a semblance of sentiment, Draco went for one last walk as Leon, popping into shops here and there to bid farewell to some of the sales witches and wizards who had come to get to know him over the many months of buying lunch and stationery.

His last salary in his pocket, Draco ultimately opted for Gringotts; apart from making the deposit, he could really use a friend right now. He hadn’t heard from Theo in a while, and he strongly suspected a certain witch to play a part in that. Not that he was mad – after all, he wasn’t one to apply double standards.

‘Hey mate, guess wha –’

Draco fell silent as soon as he spotted the third person in the room. She wasn’t particularly hard to miss, seeing as she was seated upon Theo’s lap, arms wrapped around his neck and breaking their kiss in the exact same moment that he walked in. He immediately recognised Tracey Davis, even though he hadn’t seen her in years; granted, the fact that – up until a second ago – she’d been snogging Theo didn’t make for a very complicated inference.

‘Hi Tracey,’ he said mindlessly, grinning at the pair, who were now hastily disentangling themselves from one another.

‘Have we met?’ she queried, cocking an eyebrow.

‘Um … I don’t think so,’ said Draco, realising too late that he still looked and sounded like somebody else. Theo made a gesture of slapping his forehead behind Tracey’s back, who smoothed out her skirt before approaching him with that particular air of confident nonchalance only a Slytherin could exude; merely a trifle undermined by the snog-induced blush that was making her chestnut brown cheeks glow. Draco could easily see why Theo was smitten with her.

‘Leon,’ he introduced himself for hopefully the last time, shaking her hand. ‘Sorry, I just assumed … Theo has told me lots about you.’

‘Has he now?’ smirked Tracey, shooting a glance over her shoulder. ‘Funny, he hasn’t mentioned you at all.’

Draco was at a loss for words, and Theo shaking his head didn’t do much to help.

_ Great, your last day as Leon, and yet another awkward situation to wriggle out of. _

‘We’re – um – Theo and I –’

‘We’re former colleagues,’ Theo came to rescue. ‘Leon used to work here.’

‘Right,’ confirmed Draco, holding onto the pretext like a Keeper onto the Quaffle. ‘Listen, I came to say good bye.’

‘Really?’ Theo raised his eyebrows. ‘How come?’

‘I’m going back to France. For good.’

Comprehension dawned on Theo’s face straight away. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said, standing up. ‘I suppose I will hear from you then … as soon as you’ve  _ arrived safely _ ?’

‘Actually, I was hoping we could …’ Draco darted a wary glimpse at Tracey.

‘It’s okay, I was about to leg it anyway,’ she said with a shrug, adding, ‘I’ll Owl you later.’ She winked at Theo before flouncing out of the office.

‘Wow – um,’ made Draco, dumbfounded, pointing his thumb at the door Tracey had just shut behind her. ‘She … er –’

‘I know,’ smirked Theo. ‘She’s brilliant.’

‘She’s not at all like I remember her from school.’

‘Oh, she is, alright,’ objected Theo. ‘There’s still a whole lot of shy and quiet underneath the serpent coating.’

‘So, I take it you’re official now?’

‘I guess … although we haven’t clearly defined – hang on – as much as I’d love to elaborate on how bloody perfect she is, this is completely off the point right now.’ Theo replaced his smirk with a mask of scepsis. ‘You’re  _ going back to France _ ?’ he iterated, using air quotes.

‘Correct.’

‘Does that mean what I think it does?’

‘Probably.’

‘Wow, mate,’ said Theo, pursing his lips. ‘That is certainly unexpected. But I think it’s about time.’

‘You do?’

‘Oh yeah. It was all good fun for a while, but it’s high time you moved on. I reckon Granger’s got something to do with it?’

‘Sort of, yeah,’ admitted Draco, rubbing his neck. ‘Now that there’s actually someone in my life, I can’t keep this whole thing up any longer. And I don’t want to, either.’

‘Understandable. So what’s your plan?’

‘Honestly? I have no idea.’

‘Will you make a full-time affair out of your family duties?’ asked Theo.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Draco. ‘I kind of want to keep writing. I just don’t know how to go about it. I can hardly apply for a job at the  _ Prophet  _ again. And I will certainly not write for the sodding  _ Witch Weekly _ … or  _ The Quibbler _ . Besides, I’ve got no references anymore.’

‘Seriously, mate?’ Theo regarded him with the “you’ve-got-to-be-shitting-me”-look he had down to a fine art. ‘You’re telling me that there is  _ no other possible way _ in which you could keep doing what you like to do?’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘I can’t believe I have to spell this out for you,’ groaned Theo. ‘But seeing as you’re clearly blinded by Granger’s tits –’

‘Oi, watch your –’

‘No – just shut it there for a second, Draco. I’m about to guide you along to a better life so will you  _ please  _ refrain from interrupting me?’

Draco gritted his teeth in response, trying to fight a smirk, yet unsuccessfully so.

‘Good. Now that that’s settled …’ Theo leaned against his desk and inspected his fingernails for an excruciatingly long time. The self-important pause was about to drive Draco bonkers, and he knew that Theo was well aware of that.

‘Here’s your solution,’ his friend said finally, levelling his gaze. ‘You will just take a shitload of Galleons’– he pushed an imaginary item from one side to the other –’and start your own bloody publishing company. That way you won’t have to answer to anyone but yourself – which should be right up your alley. So basically, you can do whatever the fuck you want.’

Draco was thoroughly floored. Of course! It was so simple! Why didn’t he think of that?

‘Why didn’t I think of that?’ he repeated aloud.

Theo flashed him a smug grin. ‘Because, my friend, you conveniently keep forgetting how disgustingly rich you are.’

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Once the pins and needles of the final retransformation had waned, Draco felt thoroughly cleansed – no more Leon. It was over. Any initial doubt was gone as a feeling of new-found freedom settled itself inside him.

He stared at the note Hermione had left him and the Floo password that was scribbled on it: “caffè latte”. Apparently, they had a thing for beverages – and what they implied.

The moment he stepped out of her fireplace, there was no mistaking that he stood in Hermione Granger’s flat. Books and old newspapers piled up on the coffee table, leaving little room for anything else; a half-finished, unidentifiable knitting project lay sprawled across a sideboard, right next to it stood several picture frames showing – who would have guessed – her family and friends. Draco caught himself wondering whether he would make the sideboard soon.

He also detected one of those monstrous Muggle contraptions; tellyvisions or so they were called. Draco had heard enough about Muggle technology to know that they ran with electricity. But how would she get that in Diagon Alley? Before he had time to inspect the machine any further, however, a pair of orange eyes made him freeze in his step. Hermione's cat – or whatever kind of mongrel it was – cautiously stared at him from afar.

Draco had once learnt a painful lesson about first impressions with animals, so he turned towards the ginger furball with confidence as well as respect, not once averting his gaze.

_ Come on _ ; he egged the cat on in his head.  _ Come closer _ .

Crookshanks – that much Draco knew from the countless times Hermione had mentioned her pet – prowled toward him after a few moments of sceptic assessment, stopping right in front of his feet before circling his legs – once, twice … until he stared up at Draco, mewling.

‘Nice to meet you, too,’ smirked Draco, squatting down to stroke the cat between the ears, glad to have passed the first test of actually being Hermione’s boyfriend – meeting the roommate, as it were. ‘Now, where’s the lady of the house?’ he asked, looking around. ‘I thought she’d be here by now.’

He rose (to Crookshanks’s evident displeasure) and began searching the rest of the flat – looking for Hermione, of course. What other reason could he have?

Hermione’s place was significantly smaller than his, albeit not lacking for anything – except for the witch herself. Although maybe the flat merely appeared to be smaller, seeing as it was crammed with books, holiday photos, more books, plants, (did he mention books?) and countless paraphernalia and memorabilia. Draco spotted several items emblazoned with the Gryffindor crest, shells in all colours and shapes, a pair of Omnioculars, and – much to his puzzlement – a strange cube, sitting inside a transparent, cylindrical box. Each side was divided into nine squares, all of which were a different colour; although, Draco noticed, they seemed to repeat themselves, adding up to a total of six shades. At the bottom of the box, white letters spelt: “Magic Cube”.

Curious. He’d never heard of such an item before. Before he could inspect the cube any further, another mewl forced Draco’s gaze back downwards to the ginger cat, which was now incessantly circling his legs.

‘Fine – let’s find you some food, shall we?’

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione was knackered. The day had been exhaustingly long, with heaps of necessary but no less tedious paperwork; on top, she’d been witness to petty office drama that she could have gladly done without. She didn’t care to hear about who was seeing whom or who failed to keep their desk tidy and “have you read the latest  _ Witch Weekly _ ?”.

_ Over my dead body. _

Needless to say, Hermione was in dire need of a Cheering Charm, or anything with the same effect, really. The scene she stumbled upon after exiting her fireplace couldn’t have been any more fitting.

Draco levelled his gaze at once, giving her one of those looks that made her swoon on the spot – his hair was lazily falling onto his brow, the faintest smile tugging at his lips. If that alone hadn’t been heart-melting enough, he sat cross-legged on her sofa, Crookshanks curled up in his lap and contentedly purring as Draco absentmindedly ruffled his fur. Hermione raised an eyebrow in confusion when she noticed the Rubik’s Cube in his other hand – each side was a different colour.

‘What’s the spell for this thing?’ Draco asked, holding the cube aloft. ‘Or does it have flesh memory?’

Hermione couldn’t help but burst out laughing –  _ wizards _ .

‘What?’ he said, looking at her questioningly. ‘I’ve solved it, but nothing’s happened. I thought it’d open or something.’

‘Oh, you pure-bloods can be so gullible sometimes,’ she giggled, taking off her cloak and shoes. ‘It’s a Muggle toy, Draco.’

‘Really? But it specifically said  _ magic _ –’

‘Well, if it  _ says  _ magic, it  _ has to _ be magical, hasn’t it?’ Hermione teased.

‘So it doesn’t do anything at all?’ he asked as he regarded the cube with blatant disappointment.

‘Solving it is a sufficient enough reward,’ she replied, sitting down next to Draco and kissing him; Crookshanks’s protest against the affectionate gesture was half-hearted at best. ‘I’m sorry I made you wait,’ she muttered against his lips. ‘There was mayhem at our department today; also, they are searching us now whenever we arrive at or leave the premises – security measures have gone through the roof. And…’

‘And?’ He looked at her with those unusually bright eyes that, she could swear, were getting more mesmerising by the day.

‘And I did some additional research on … doesn’t matter right now,’ she finished. ‘Have you had dinner yet?’

‘Yeah,’ said Draco. ‘As did your monstrosity of a cat.’

‘You fed Crookshanks?’

‘I took the liberty of looking for cat food because he wouldn’t leave me in peace.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hermione, feeling a pleasant tingle running down her spine and descending a little farther. Hang on – was she just getting turned on by Draco’s having fed her pet?

_ Snap out of it, Hermione, it's not a big deal! _

‘Sally was supposed to take care of that, actually,’ she said, while mentioned pet climbed over onto her legs.

‘Who’s Sally?’

‘My neighbour. She helps me out sometimes; I pay her in return, and I also read over her job applications.’

‘Is she the one with the clingy owl?’ he asked.

Hermione nodded; was that relief smoothing out his features?

‘I’ve got some news,’ said Draco. He untangled his legs and leaned back on her sofa with an air of comfort as if he had never been anywhere else. Hermione, taking it as an invitation and snuggling herself next to him, silently urged the blond to continue.

‘I quit earlier.’

Hermione’s eyes went wide.

‘Really?’

‘Really.’

‘What did you tell them?’ she queried.

‘That I was going back to France.’ Draco's shrug made her head move up and down along with his shoulders.

‘But all you’ve built up for yourself –’

‘Is gone, yes. At least if I wanted to apply somewhere else. But … I talked to Theo earlier, and he had this brilliant idea – I’m going to start my own company.’

Hermione raised her gaze and saw excitement flicker over Draco’s eyes. It actually sounded like a decent plan; why hadn’t she thought of that? Although …

‘But what about your parents?’ she muttered. ‘I thought you wanted to keep all this a secret from them.’

‘Well,’ said Draco, reaching for her hand and lacing his fingers with hers. ‘That did cross my mind earlier, however … you know, once I tell them I’m seeing Hermione Granger, I believe my occupation will be the least of their concerns.’

Hermione’s brows knitted together as Draco flashed her an amused smirk.

‘What's so funny?’ she asked.

‘Nothing. It's just that my father will probably summon my ancestors from their graves to haunt me until the day I die unless I break up with you.’ Draco's grin broadened. ‘But seriously – I just need to be smart about this. I’ll gather enough gold to launch my business  _ before _ I tell them I’m going out with a Muggle-born war heroine, house-elf rights activist, and swotty lioness.’

‘You think they’ll cut you off?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Draco, shrugging again. ‘My father might try to blackmail me into withdrawing from my plans, but I can’t imagine he’d be willing to take up all of the administrative duties again. He's too much of a coward to leave the Manor these days. So unless another heir pops up out of nowhere, he’d have to deal with it all.’

‘Couldn’t your mother do it?’

‘She won’t; she’s made that clear time and time again.’

‘A confidant then?’

Draco shook his head. ‘It’s customary that the financial management stay within the family. My father is way too invested in family traditions to break them.’ He squeezed her hand and chuckled, ‘Curious – I don’t even care anymore. I lied to them to uphold the illusion of an intact family when in reality it was everything but. I still want my mother to be happy, but in the end, it’s her call, not mine.’

Sighing wistfully, he added, ‘Speaking of parents … you seem to be close with yours – judging by all those photos I mean.’

‘Yeah, we are close,’ said Hermione, now drawing lazy patterns onto the back of his hand. She noticed that she wasn’t upset at all that he had looked around her place – the Rubik’s Cube, the photos … Hermione had nothing to hide, after all. Besides, she’d done her own fair share of snooping that morning – which reminded her …

‘There’s something I wanted to talk to you about,’ she said, lifting her head off his shoulder and straightening herself. Hermione’s breaths became heavier. ‘I told you I did some research. There’s this archive at the Ministry –’

‘What did you hope to find there? I am sure you have every book that ever existed in here already – your place is a library.’ Draco flashed her a grin. It was evident that he was in a good mood, and Hermione was about to crush it.

‘I … I was looking for – oh, Merlin’s beard,’ She threw her head back and groaned, disgruntled by her own incapability of getting to the point. ‘Look, I found that Patronus pamphlet in your dustbin this morning, and I think we should talk about it.’

Draco mouthed a silent “oh” as comprehension dawned on his face, shortly clouded by apparent discomfort. The fact that he withdrew the arm he had up until this point wrapped around her shoulder made Hermione’s heart plummet.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t want to make you feel uncomfortable –’

‘Well, the context of the flyer being in a bloody dustbin could have been an indication towards my reaction, don’t you think?’ he said humourlessly.

‘I can hardly ignore it, can I?’ Hermione noticed the shrillness in her voice, turning it down a notch before she added, ‘The Patronus Charm is important; maybe  _ the  _ most important spell at the moment. If you haven’t mastered it, you’re in serious danger!’

‘Am I really?’ he deadpanned, narrowing his eyes; if Hermione hadn’t known that he was hiding behind a wall of cynicism, she might have felt intimidated. ‘Don’t you think I didn’t know that already?’

‘Of course –’

‘I tried, okay? I keep trying, and nothing ever comes of it. And yes,’ he continued before Hermione could so much as open her mouth, ‘before you ask, I have used all sorts of memories. Nothing has worked so far, and trust me – I have tried the best memories I could possibly have.’

Hermione swallowed. The initial anger in his eyes subsided, slowly being replaced with sadness – vulnerability showed through, and Hermione suddenly recalled having encountered that very look before, back at the Patils’ house.

‘I just want to help,’ she said eventually, and to her relief, Draco took her hand in his again.

‘I know you do.’ The smile he gave her was tainted with anguish. ‘But I don’t think you can. This is not about the actual execution of the spell. I know the theory, and I use memories that would surely work if … that would surely work for somebody else. I just … I can’t –’

‘Snape could,’ Hermione interrupted him. ‘Snape could cast a Patronus, and he also wore the Dark Mark.’

Draco flinched and averted his gaze, staring at their intertwined hands.

‘So I’ve heard,’ he mumbled.

‘It's true! I haven't seen it, but Harry has. Harry said that it was because of his mother.’

Draco only scoffed at that. ‘Like I said … I’ve tried my best. I can only work with what I already have. Who knows, it probably took him years and years to conjure a Patronus. I don’t have years. This is real, and it's happening right now.’

‘And that's exactly why you need help!’ said Hermione, trying to hide her frustration. Why didn’t he see that? A brazen and most unwelcome part of her wanted to slap him and  _ make _ him see – but she knew better than to resort to brute force.

He turned to face her again. ‘Alright, let's say I make it work somehow – who says I’ll be able to cast one in … what was it you said? A life threatening situation. I have been there. They suck everything out of you, and you know that.’

Hermione began working her bottom lip. He was right, but she was fairly certain she’d manage next time; she had been practising enough over the past weeks to feel confident in her abilities again.

‘But that doesn’t mean you should give up altogether,’ she said after a while. ‘You’re in as much danger as I am.’

Draco let out a grunt. ‘Believe me, I know. Maybe I shouldn’t start a business just yet. I might as well hang a sign around my neck which screams “blood traitor” every five seconds.’

‘No,’ Hermione shook her head. ‘Don’t postpone anything that matters to you because of them. Life goes on, remember? You said so yourself.’

‘Yeah, maybe I did,’ he shrugged. ‘But that was before …’

‘Before,’ Hermione swallowed audibly. ‘Before the attack on Padma you mean?’

Draco didn’t say anything. He just took up his staring at their hands again.

‘I wanted to tell you, you know,’ he muttered. ‘On the night Padma … I was on my way to see you and tell you the truth. About everything.’

Hermione’s heart beat heavy in her ribcage, but whether it was because of his former plan to reveal his identity to her or the fact that he had witnessed a Dementor’s Kiss, she couldn’t tell.

‘How are you – I mean, are you okay? With what happened.’

Draco shrugged indifferently. ‘No?’ he said, locking eyes with her again. ‘I don’t know – probably not.’

There was a pain in his eyes that he didn’t try to hide in the slightest. Hermione wanted to take it away so badly. He didn’t want her help as regards the Patronus Charm – at least not for the time being – but she knew how to abate some of his pain in that very moment.

She cupped his cheek in her hand, and Draco closed his eyes at the gesture. The kiss she gave him was sweet; Hermione tried to put as much comfort in it as possible. It didn’t take very long, however, until sweet turned into sultry.

‘I’ve never rewarded you for solving the cube,’ she whispered in between kisses. ‘How would you like a tour of the rest of the house?’

Draco groaned against her, taking her hand and moving it over the bulge in his trousers. Feeling his stiffening length made heat gather between her legs.

‘I would very much like that,’ said the blond, breathing heavily as Hermione attended to palming his covered hardness. ‘I say we start with the bedroom.’

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

_ Two weeks later _

Euan Abercrombie had always wondered why he’d been sorted into Gryffindor. Never had he felt particularly brave or chivalrous; he was quiet and reserved and preferred to stay out of trouble – a trait so distinct from his housemates’.

The seventeen-year-old turned his head to the side and stared at the drawn curtains of Scott’s bed. Judging from the light snoring, he was fast asleep, as was everyone else in the dorm. Everyone but him. It seemed to be his life’s motto.

Everyone but him.

Everyone was coping. Everyone was running after Rose Zeller. Everyone was excited about the upcoming match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Everyone was anticipating the end of term and being back with their families.

Everyone but him.

There was nothing to go back to.

Euan’s head spun back around. His eyes were unfocused as if looking at something that lay beyond the canopy of his four-poster bed. Tears refused to come; he hadn’t cried in a while. All he felt was emptiness – a void, sucking him in and tearing him apart from the inside out.

Nothing to go back to.

His mind was stirring up memories he’d sooner forget. Forget … erase. Cease to exist. His own thoughts felt alien to him. It was as if he were hearing somebody else’s voice in his head.

Calling him.

Euan slung the blanket aside and stood up, heading toward the stairs that would lead down to the common room. He didn’t for one second contemplate getting properly dressed. Why would he? It didn’t make sense. Nothing did.

He encountered no one on his way out of the castle, not even a ghost. The corridors were barren – the silence and blackness surrounding him not intimidating, but welcoming. Welcoming him into the dark. Euan’s senses were numb. He barely noticed the wet and cold grass beneath his bare feet as he left the castle behind him.

As he verged on the mist-shrouded gate, Euan felt old emotions well up within him. His soul, stripped bare and exposed for everyone to ridicule when he confessed to liking Scott. The life-altering pain which emerged upon hearing about his family’s slaughtering and the searing realisation that he would never talk to them again – all gone, just like that. Pain which no other soul could sense, morphing into an everyday veil of torment.

_ “They were only Muggles and Scumsuckers, Abercrombie, pull yourself together. You’re a disgrace to your house – twenty points from Gryffindor.” _

The Cruciatus Curse which had ensued made him feel something other than just numbness; it was almost a welcomed change. He didn’t have any tangible memories of the weeks after, as if someone had overwritten a tape with nothing more than white noise. That white noise had never gone away entirely afterwards. No matter how hard he tried, there was always something pulling him back – pulling him down.

Euan could sense the Dementors before he could see them. The cold they exuded was, however, not met with fear, but with a feeling of familiarity. He was cold inside already; now he could feel the freezing chill somewhere other than simply within his shattered heart.

Their rattling breaths rang in his ears as they drew closer and closer. Euan wasn’t scared. There was nothing left to be scared of.

_ Take me. Make it stop. _

He closed his eyes and sunk onto his knees, a slimy finger touching his chin and tilting up his head as a single teardrop trickled down his cheek. Never before had Euan Abercrombie felt as brave as he did in that moment.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Delve into the feels with "Archibald MacDonald of Keppoch", as performed by Alasdair Fraser & Natalie Haas, and "Trouble" by Cat Stevens. After that, please give a listen to Ennio Morricone's main title of My Name Is Nobody, Glen Miller's "In the Mood", or any other song that makes you instantly happy. The good old Snarry/Drarry crackvideo by Ariel Lindt will also do – although you have been warned with that one ;)
> 
> As of today, I'm a finalist for the Enchanted Awards Summer 2017 in the category Stone by Stone (Best Relationship Development). I am sufficiently floored. If you care to vote, please check out my tumblr (ph1n0a).
> 
> Cheers, Phinoa


	16. Draco's Burden

— CHAPTER SIXTEEN —

_**Draco's Burden** _

Winter was slowly coming to an end, but it was snowing still. Thick flakes sprinkled irregular patterns onto the windowpane – white blotches against the darkness of an early night. Draco watched as the snowflakes touched the glass before bleeding out and turning into droplets.

He lounged in his usual spot, _Hogwarts: A History_ in his lap. It appeared to be Hermione's favourite book, judging from the many times she quoted from the massive tome, despite being out of Hogwarts for almost three years. Draco flipped to the first page again, as he had done a few times already, and looked at her full name, neatly written but still bearing the subtle scrawl of a child's hand.

He tried to imagine what it must have been like to learn to have abilities which up until that point had only existed in dreams and fiction. Exhilarating. Completely and utterly mind-blowing. Mental. Draco smirked to himself upon realising that those words captured precisely how it felt to be with Hermione.

Too bad she was meeting her friends that night. Otherwise, they would have sat together, reading and discussing a book, and exchanging the occasional kiss until ultimately ending up in bed – or any other suitable surface for that matter. They'd made a habit out of those reading sessions over the past two weeks; the reading alone made for a surprisingly intimate experience – something neither of them had ever shared with anyone before.

When they were with each other, nothing was amiss, even if they just had a cup of tea in silence. On the rare occasion that they went out, it would be a trip to Muggle London; neither of them talked about the reasons behind avoiding Diagon Alley, yet he was sure they both knew why – dating in public and being exposed to Skeeter was something they weren't ready to face.

The moment he saw the owl approaching his window, Draco frowned, knowing that something terrible had happened. It carried the _Evening Prophet_ , disappearing into the snow as soon as Draco accepted the paper. His frown turned into a scowl upon spotting the author's name – a name which could only bode ill.

_BREAKING NEWS:  
STUDENT FOUND DEAD – MCGONAGALL PULLS DISTRACTION SCAM_

_BY R. SKEETER_

_Hogwarts student Euan Thomas Abercrombie, 17, has been found dead in front of the school's gates this morning. Despite a dubious amount of hugger-mugger on behalf of Headmistress Minerva "The Iron" McGonagall, it has been brought to our attention that the orphaned boy froze to death during the night._

_None other than half-giant Rubeus Hagrid – still teaching at Hogwarts and thus one of the many doubtful vestiges of Albus Dumbledore's tenure – found Abercrombie while making his rounds. Much to the chagrin of the authorities, he carried him to the castle, removing the body from the crime scene and hence destroying any evidence that might have been crucial to solving the mystery. Experts assume that the Faceless were somehow involved in the matter, although now, with Hagrid's impetuous actions, we might never learn what has really happened to the boy._

_While the sixty-six-year old Headmistress desperately tried to smother up the incident, she didn't manage to keep the_ Daily Prophet _in the dark for very long. "I don't have time for this," she snapped earlier today, without hinting at when she'd be available for an interview; a demeanour which may be considered as an attempted act of censorship. Could she have something to hide? Her ratty tone in response to a couple of routine questions is certainly an indicator._

_Abercrombie's demise is once again proof of McGonagall's ineptitude for fulfilling her position as Headmistress; she still clings to Dumbledore's figurative robe-tails and in doing so, constantly misses the boat to move on from eccentric teaching methods and poor security standards. Or is it perhaps the after-effect of the four Stunners which hit the ageing McGonagall back in 1996 that are finally beginning to weigh on her and impede her capabilities?_

_Either way, it is indubitably in the interest of the public that the school's questionable administration cooperate and communicate further details on Abercrombie's death. Parents are fretting for their children's lives, and they need to be certain of their safety._

_(For further information on boarding schools abroad and their enrolment procedures, see tomorrow's edition of the_ Daily Prophet _.)_

'Unbelievable,' muttered Draco as he skimmed the letter a second time. Was Cuffe so desperate as to resort to hiring sodding Skeeter? It seemed so. Leave it to her to cast a slur on an innocent kid's memory.

Euan Abercrombie – the name rang a bell, and Draco's stomach turned ominously just thinking about it. He vaguely remembered a skinny Gryffindor boy with large ears and blond hair – or had it been brown?

Draco was interrupted in trying to put together an image of the deceased when his fireplace lit up, green flames revealing a flustered Hermione, who held in her hands the very same paper that Draco had just been reading.

'Have you seen this?' She waggled with the _Evening Prophet_.

Draco nodded, and Hermione plonked herself down onto the sofa.

'This is outrageous!' she fumed. 'This … this _woman_ – ugh!' She groaned, clenching her fists and crumpling up the paper. 'She is impossible! A student is _dead_ for goodness' sake! And all she can focus on is Professor McGonagall's "ineptitude"? How in Godric's name could your boss – sorry, ex-boss – allow this to be printed?'

'I don't know,' said Draco truthfully. 'I wouldn't have expected him to employ Skeeter ever again.'

'Aren't there any other proper writers in this fucking country besides you?'

Hadn't the situation been so upsetting, Draco would have smirked at her atypical use of strong language.

'Apparently not … unless, of course, she tricked him somehow.'

'Wouldn't surprise me,' huffed Hermione, shooting an irate glare at the paper that – Draco could have sworn – would set it on fire if she kept looking. 'But that's off point right now,' she continued. 'What's done is done.'

'She's a piece of scum,' said Draco, gritting his teeth. 'This is bullshit.'

'Yeah, it is. That poor boy … and Hagrid … I need to see if he's alright. And I have to find out what happened. Do you think Skeeter is right and the Faceless are behind all this?'

'I don't know.' Draco slumped down next to her. 'Why would they attack a student? Nevermind,' he added quickly, 'they don't need a reason for anything. The question is: how did they get him out of the castle in the first place?'

'See, there lies the rub,' mused Hermione. She squinted her eyes, and Draco could almost see the cogs whirring in her head. 'I don't think they got him out of the castle at all. It's not possible – the wards are too strong. Besides, even if we assume that they somehow found a way in, why would they pick a student over one of the staff? No … there has to be an explanation. It can't have been the Faceless.'

She turned towards him. 'I'm going over there,' she said with a determined look in her normally soft brown eyes. 'Professor McGonagall won't talk to Skeeter, but she will talk to the Aurors, and maybe there's some way in which I can help.'

Hermione was about to push herself up, but Draco quickly took her face in his hands and kissed her. Some of her anger seemed to melt away underneath the touch, and he could tell her eyes closed just like his did.

'I'll be back,' she muttered, standing up and Disapparating with a loud _crack_.

Draco sat there for a while, vacantly staring at where Hermione had just vanished. The silence in the room was bordering on oppressive, forcing his thoughts into a direction which he refused to take, but to no avail. The longer he thought about Euan Abercrombie, the clearer his memories became. He'd been a first year when Draco was appointed prefect, and he'd teased the kid more than once. _Teased_ … tormented was more like it.

Draco's stomach turned. He thought he was going to be sick, recalling how he used to treat children like Abercrombie. Whether it was slagging them off, retracting points from their houses for no reason at all, or resorting to Muggle violence – throwing things or even punches at them.

And now one of those kids was dead.

He had seen worse than his bullying, though. Draco surmised he must have suffered endlessly under the Carrows. Merlin, how excited Greg and Vincent had been about being allowed to use the Cruciatus Curse on all those younger students … they'd thought it _fun_. Bloody fools – they'd had no idea what it was like to do it against your will, not to mention what it felt like to be on the receiving end.

Draco forced himself to get up and think about something else; compartmentalising was one of his strong suits after all. And so he did, as he'd done countless times before: shoving it all away.

It took Hermione several hours to get back. Draco had just finished eating a late-night snack when he heard the telltale noise of somebody materialising behind him.

'Hey,' he said, turning around in his chair. 'How did it go?'

Hermione bit her lower lip and said nothing.

'Are you okay?' asked Draco. He stood, pulling the brunette into a firm embrace.

'I don't know,' she replied at last. 'The atmosphere at Hogwarts – it's … it reminds me so much of the Battle, or the night Cedric died. Everyone's quiet – nobody knows what to say or do.'

'Come, let's sit, okay?' suggested Draco, pointing at the sofa. Hermione nodded and complied, Draco holding her hand as she continued to speak.

'I talked to Hagrid first. He was … I haven't seen him this sad in years. He has indeed found Euan frozen right outside the grounds. He told me he was in his pyjamas, feet bare. There was no indication of a fight – no wand, nothing. Madam Pomfrey conducted a Spellopsy on him, and it turns out he wasn't hit by anything. He just died from the cold. However, Trelawney insisted that she sensed a – how did she put it? Right, a "forceful secession of body and soul". I don't normally trust her, and neither does Professor McGonagall, but in this case, we both believe she's right.'

'But … if she's right, does that mean –'

'That he was kissed before he died,' Hermione finished his thought, and Draco swallowed hard. 'Dementors surround Hogwarts practically all the time these days, especially during the night. They can't get in, though. But … from what I've heard, Euan hadn't been alright in years. Hagrid told me that he's been bullied a lot by his housemates … the boys who share his dorm feel beyond miserable now; one of them was still sitting outside the hospital wing when I arrived, he must have been there all day. Apparently, he's told Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall that he heard Euan get out of bed in the middle of the night – thought he was just going to use the loo, so he didn't dwell on it. Fell back to sleep instantly, he said.'

Draco felt as though brick stones had replaced his insides. 'He … he couldn't have just – left on his own accord, could he?'

Hermione worried her lip again, a line appearing between her brows. 'I believe he did.'

'So, what – he committed suicide?'

'It appears so.'

Draco allowed his face to be cradled in his palms. He couldn't believe it. This teenager had suffered so much in his life that, to him, surrendering himself to the Dementors and deliberately giving them his soul made for a better option than to keep living. What the fuck was wrong with this world? How in Salazar's name could _he_ have ever played his part in making it the cruel place it was?

'Hey, stop it,' said Hermione – Draco only then realised that he'd been pulling at his hair. She laid her hands on his, and he loosened his grip at once. 'It's not your fault.'

'Is it?' Draco sat up and looked into her brown eyes, shimmering with concern. 'You have no idea, Hermione. I … I fucking beat that kid up once!'

The look she gave him then was one full of pity.

'I know,' she said quietly, to Draco's surprise. 'Euan came to talk to me afterwards. He begged me to keep quiet, made me promise even. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen – he didn't want to provoke anyone.'

'And by anyone, he meant me,' said Draco bitterly. 'Great. Fucking fantastic.'

'It's not your fault,' Hermione repeated, but Draco had a hard time believing her. If she really thought him innocent in the matter of Abercrombie's death, she was gravely mistaken. 'Look, let's not talk about this, alright?' she suggested. 'I know you're not that person anymore.'

'It doesn't change that I have been that person once.'

'Your past doesn't define you,' she objected, attempting to smile at him.

'Oh yeah?' he bit back, whereupon her smile faded at once. Draco felt anger well up within – anger directed at his stupid prick of a teenaged self, but it was Hermione who would get the lion's share of it. He would scare her off if he continued, yet Draco found he could not stop himself. 'Then why is _this_ still affecting me?' he snarled, pulling up his sleeve violently. 'My past _does_ define me. It's _marked_ me. You know that just as much as I do, whether you choose to ignore it or not.'

'How can you say that?' she said, taken aback. 'I don't do that!'

'Right,' he grumbled. 'That's why you're with me, because you're constantly aware of what I did in the past.'

'Excuse me, Draco, this is _not_ what I was getting at!' said Hermione hotly. 'You're clearly upset, so I will overlook what you've just said.' She frowned at him now; her fists stemmed into her side – there was definitely something intimidating about that pose.

Draco stifled a snide remark; everything he said now would only make it worse. She was right, he was upset – with himself.

'Don't you remember what I said the other week?' she continued. 'About finding a way for you to overcome all that?'

'Of course I remember,' he said through gritted teeth, adamantly trying not to snap at her again.

 _Stay calm_ , he told himself. _It's not her fault._

'I know you don't want to hear this, Draco, but you really need to learn that spell. It _has_ to work somehow. There's no way this mark will keep you from fulfilling your potential forever. I briefly searched the Hogwarts library tonight, but I couldn't find anything useful … I mean, there's always the _Bibliotheca Ars Magica Europaea_ in Aachen but –'

'Say again?'

'The _Bibliotheca Ars Magica Europaea –_ the biggest wizarding library in Europe?' Hermione darted an interrogative look at him. 'In Aachen – Aix-la-Chapelle. Does it ring a bell? No? It's in Germany. Don't tell me you've never heard of the place before! Half of our sixth-year curriculum dealt with that city. Professor Binns –'

'Sixth year, huh?' said Draco bitterly. 'There may have been other things on my mind than a bloody library, back then.'

'Oh … I –' Hermione's expression faltered.

'It's okay. Just don't say anything. I know you're only trying to help, but this is something I need to figure out on my own.'

'But –'

'Just leave it, will you?' he suddenly spat again.

_So much for staying calm._

'Books aren't the answer to everything! And I'm not your sodding charity project!'

'Fine,' Hermione countered in a tone equally as waspish. 'Don't accept my help then. You don't need it, apparently.'

She vigorously hauled herself off the cushions and stormed towards his fireplace, not even looking back at him once before stepping into the flames. Draco fumed. Hermione could be so pushy sometimes! She was right, of course, but that didn't make it any less aggravating – as if he didn't already know that he was easy meat for Dementors! He withstood the urge to punch the wall, swinging his fists at the bloody couch instead.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco woke up in a foul mood; sleep hadn't come easy. And when it finally had, his dreams were haunted by the image of a child with prominent ears, lying on the frozen ground, while Draco stood idly by, watching helplessly as a pale, faceless boy pelted the body with snowballs.

Still riddled with unease because of the previous night and his dreams, he spent the Friday uncharacteristically idle. He could practically hear Theo mock him: "Moping doesn't suit you, mate." And yet, mope, he did. He felt awful about rowing with Hermione; he'd snapped at her, even though he knew she was in the right – maybe all the more _because_ he knew she was in the right.

She only wanted to help, and he'd pushed her away; accused her of things she'd never done or said even. It was only fair that he apologise. Unfortunately, he had to sit through the entire day until he could do so; Hermione wouldn't be home until the evening.

So mope, he did.

When he finally threw a handful of Floo powder into his fireplace, Draco briefly wondered whether she had changed the password; being all the more relieved as the typical spinning sensation of Floo travel confirmed that she hadn't. It sparked a glimmer of hope in him that she wasn't as cross as he apprehended.

He called her name, but all that greeted him was darkness and silence. Even Crookshanks – who would normally dash towards him the second he set foot on the floorboards – was nowhere to be seen. Was there another birthday party he should have known she'd attend, like Weasley's the week before? Not that he could recall. And where in the bloody hell was the cat?

Draco looked for a note, a clue, anything – without success. She wouldn't be in trouble, would she? No, she was too careful for that. Although perhaps he should make sure by checking with her neighbour.

As soon as Sally Shunpike opened the door, Crookshanks all but pounced on him, and Draco breathed a sigh of relief in response – his being at Sally's meant that Hermione had simply gone out.

 _Probably to avoid you_ , he thought bitterly.

'Oh, alright,' said Sally. 'Ye lookin' for 'ermione?'

'Hi, um – yeah.' Draco rubbed his neck, trying not to sneer at the chunky highlights she sported. Hermione had told him about her neighbour's new hairstyle the other night, and now Draco could see why she hadn't been able to stop laughing – apparently, Sally had gone to a Muggle hair salon to have it done; Muggles surely had a barmy sense of fashion.

'She's not 'ere, sorry,' said Sally with a twang in her voice.

_Speaking of pointing out the obvious._

'Do you know where she is?' asked Draco.

'I reckon she wen' out.'

_Oh really? Who would have guessed?_

'Do you know where she went?'

'Dunno … probably to a friend's place,' she said, leaving Draco with almost as many questions as before.

'Thank you anyway.' He nodded politely.

'You're alrigh' – wanna take Crooks with ya?' Sally cocked her chin towards the ginger cat that had settled himself by his feet.

'No, I'll be going back home, thanks.'

The cat in question mewled at that, but went back inside all the same, although not before grazing Draco's legs one last time.

'Quite right,' shrugged Sally, flashing him a kind smile. 'See ya then.'

'Bye,' said Draco, his shoulders drooping once the witch with the questionable hairstyle had closed the door. Fucking fantastic; now he had to get through another night without finding closure.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Friday came to an end with a bit of Odgen's and a large portion of Dreamless Sleep Potion. When Draco woke up the following day, he groaned upon realising that he had slept much longer than intended; it was past noon already. Granted, his body could use the rest provided by the potion, but he'd wanted to go and see Hermione right away, lest he find her flat empty again.

After a quick shower, Draco slipped into the navy cashmere jumper Hermione was so fond of, along with one of his few pairs of jeans; he had to up his game a notch if he wanted to make up with her, and boy did Hermione like those jeans. His plan was simple: a sincere apology, followed by the best possible way to blow off some steam. Hopefully, that combination was good enough to pour oil on troubled waters.

One foot out of Hermione's fireplace and Draco knew immediately that she was home. Not only did he hear the soft tapping of Crookshanks's paws on the floor, swiftly nearing on him, but also spotted her signature mane of brown curls – only that he saw double.

In the split-second before the two brunettes whirled their heads around, he locked eyes with the man sitting on the sofa across from them. He had been talking up until the point of Draco's arrival and fell silent in an instant. The gaze he threw him was sceptical, to put it mildly.

'Draco?' said Hermione, standing up, although not to greet him in their usual affectionate fashion. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly unsure of what to do with her limbs.

'Hey,' he said meekly, his eyes darting back and forth between his fidgety girlfriend and said girlfriend's father. It wasn't hard to connect the dots, considering that he had seen their faces on innumerable family photos, the only novelty being a few silver streaks woven into Hermione's mother's locks. He suddenly remembered having met them before, albeit from a distance; back at Flourish and Blotts, the day his father had got into a fist fight with Arthur Weasley. He briefly wondered whether they remembered him, too, and sincerely hoped they did not.

'Um – sorry,' mumbled Draco sheepishly, 'this is a bad time. I'll see myself out.'

'Nonsense,' said Hermione's mother, slicing the air with her hand and standing up. 'You must be Draco'– she had a pleasantly firm handshake –'I'm Helen.'

Draco cleared his throat – it was time to call forth his manners. 'Nice to meet you, Helen.'

'This is my husband, Robert.'

'Draco,' he introduced himself upon receiving a slightly firmer handshake from Hermione's father.

'I'm aware,' said Robert. 'We've already heard a lot about you.'

Draco swallowed as though he could literally gulp down his nerves. It wasn't as if he were met with animosity, but there was an air of wariness about the man which made Draco feel slightly queasy. He certainly didn't miss the insinuation; his reputation seemed to precede him, although Draco assumed Robert wasn't just hinting at the most recent developments – not that he could blame him.

'Sorry,' Draco iterated and looked at Hermione. She was still fidgeting, now worrying her lower lip like she always did when she was rattled or nervy. 'Do you have a minute?'

She nodded and led the way, Draco shooting one more apologetic look over his shoulder before following her into the bedroom.

'Are you,' Draco cleared his throat again, 'are you having tea with your parents?'

'No, Draco, we're evoking demons in an ancient Muggle ritual involving Darjeeling and Digestives.' Was that an amused smile tugging at her lips? 'Of course we're having tea,' she added before pressing her mouth shut, although unable to keep its corners from lifting.

Yes, that was definitely a smile, albeit at his expense. Not that he cared – it was a good sign.

'Are you okay?' he asked.

'Yeah … I think so.' Hermione was wringing her hands and swaying back and forth on her heels. 'Are you?'

'No,' Draco answered truthfully. 'Not really. Look, I –'

'Sally told me you were here last night,' she interrupted him.

'I was.' Draco rubbed the back of his neck. 'I wanted to talk to you. Where – um'– Draco shook his head –'no, it's none of my business.'

'I was at Hagrid's,' she said, and Draco felt somewhat relieved.

_What were you expecting? That she went to see somebody else behind your back?_

Draco silenced the voice in his head as soon as the unwelcome thoughts had popped up; jealousy wasn't something he was familiar with. Besides, it was completely uncalled for as well as off-topic.

'I came to apologise,' he said eventually. 'For what I said. I shouldn't have snapped. I'm sorry.'

'Please don't do it again.' Hermione looked at him intently, but warmly, and Draco felt a knot inside his chest loosen that he didn't know had been there. It was strange; he'd expected there'd be a lot more talking involved, but apparently, only few words were needed to put them both back on track.

'I won't.' Draco took a step closer and her hands in his. 'You're fidgeting.'

'I know … I was nervous about us fighting again.'

Draco chuckled, tucking away one of her loose curls – sweet Merlin, she smelt so good. 'We will fight again, Hermione. Tomorrow perhaps … or in a month, or in a year. All we can do is make sure we do not hurt each other beyond repair.'

She then leaned in, meeting his lips with a kiss so sweet Draco thought he would melt.

'You look nice,' she whispered before capturing his mouth all over, and Draco couldn't fight a smirk, which caused Hermione to draw back, saying, 'You dressed like this on purpose! You're such a Slytherin.'

'I take that as a compliment.' His smirk widened, and Draco wiggled his eyebrows at her, inducing a clear laugh. 'I think you should go back, or your parents will get suspicious.'

'Let them,' said Hermione cheekily, giving him the once-over and biting her lip again, except this time, it was for a whole other reason.

'Just come over later, alright?' he suggested hoarsely. Salazar save him, if she kept looking at him like that, it would become harder and harder to resist the temptation she embodied – literally.

'You could stay, you know … I mean, you've already met them now, anyway, might as well –'

'No, Hermione, I don't think that's a good idea. Today is about them and you, not me. Besides, I'm not sure your father would want me to stay.'

'Oh, he'll come around,' said Hermione matter-of-factly. 'It's just that – you know, over the years, I may have told them certain … things about you.'

'I assumed as much. It's okay, I wouldn't expect him to like me considering our past.'

'Like I said, he won't be like that for long, I can assure you.'

'So you've told them about everything?' queried Draco. 'The recent events, I mean.'

'I have,' she confirmed, a light pink hue creeping up her cheeks. Draco revelled in the sight – it wasn't that she didn't blush at all anymore, but it had become a much rarer occurrence compared to the very beginning of their relationship.

'Listen, about what you said the other night,' he began, 'you're right. I need to learn that spell. I don't know how, and I don't know when or if it'll work, but I can promise you this much: I'll keep trying.'

'Really?'

The way her face lit up was worth the promise and the impending struggle it implied.

'Yes, really. Also, if you want to do some research … I'd be grateful for your help.'

Hermione practically threw herself at him, and Draco had a hard time (again, quite literally so) to defy the urge to push her back onto her bed. At least it was rather easy to steer his thoughts away from the seducing image, what with her parents waiting in the adjacent room.

'You should go back,' he said as calmly as possible while putting a safe distance between them. 'I can wait.'

'Can you?' she grinned, taking a step towards him and thus sliding over the buffer he'd just created.

'I don't have much of a choice, do I?'

'Well …' Her eyes darted down to his jeans. 'Just make sure to think of me.'

Draco briefly closed his eyes to regain focus, breathing in sharply. 'Merlin, Hermione, you have no idea what you do to me.'

She sniggered then, letting her fingers wander up his chest until they trailed his jawline all the way to the sensitive skin of his neck. 'You underestimate me, Draco Malfoy,' she purred; a shiver ran down his spine upon her saying his full name, although he couldn't pinpoint as to why. Hermione raised herself on tiptoes, whispering in his ear, 'I know _exactly_ what I'm doing – consider it my payback.'

If _that_ was how she took revenge, thought Draco, he would have to pick another fight with her sooner than she preferred. Much sooner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Over 200 reviews on FFnet and a cascade of comments here on Ao3 – thank you all so much! You are what keeps pushing me, I swear by the Old Readers and the New.
> 
> I know there isn't much happening here, but it's important to me to establish their relationship progress. Hope you still enjoyed all the dialogue and rowing and making up. Also, I can finally make a rough estimate as to the length of this story: I think it'll end up having about 25 chapters, so not that much to go! It scares me a bit, honestly.
> 
> As a little personal side note: as of tomorrow, I'll be on holiday in the UK for little over two weeks, exploring the Great Hall and hugging the tree our beloved ferret once sat in (no shame). I'll try to keep writing, but I can't make any promises, especially when it comes to actually posting something during that time.
> 
> As always, thanks love – you know who you are. Order me a Butterbeer, will you?
> 
> Have a lovely summer everyone!
> 
> Phinoa


	17. The House on Chestnut Close

— CHAPTER SEVENTEEN —

_**The House on Chestnut Close** _

'Are you sure you're alright?'

Draco could see Hermione looking at him out of the corner of his eye.

'Positive,' he lied, and judging from her sigh, she knew it. Alright or not – at the very least, he was still nervous. They were standing in front of a brick stone house – as it appeared, the only house on the entire street that wasn't mock-Tudor. Meeting her parents was a big step in their relationship. Granted, he'd met them before three weeks prior, but only by accident. This was something different entirely; it was official, and for him, meeting the parents was a first – if you didn't count knowing your school fling's mother and father simply by moving in the same social circles.

'Don't worry,' said Hermione, wrapping her hand around his reassuringly. 'They'll like you.'

'Your mother, maybe. Your father – I am not so sure.'

'Just be your usual, charming self'– she gave his hand a gentle squeeze –'besides, they'll love your gift.'

'Are you sure they won't be freaked out by it?'

'Positive.' Draco could hear her smiling before she stood on tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

'Hello you two, Happy Easter,' said Helen as soon as the door swung open.

'Happy Easter,' Draco and Hermione echoed in unison, exchanging a glance and a smirk.

'Come on in.' Helen waved them inside, calling over her shoulder, 'Honey, they're here.'

Draco heard a shuffling noise, followed by Robert Granger walking towards them. He could have sworn to have heard him mutter something along the lines of "clearly an LBW, that was" before clearing his throat and offering him his hand.

'Happy Easter, Sir,' said Draco, wearing his most debonair smile.

'You too, Draco, glad you could make it,' said Robert cordially, and Draco felt a bit of weight lift from his chest. He couldn't sense any of the scepticism her father had regarded him with upon their first encounter.

'What's an LBW?' Draco whispered into Hermione's ear as they followed her parents into the sitting room. She made a sound which couldn't decide whether it wanted to be a chortle or a groan.

'It stands for "leg before wicket",' she said, 'but honestly, don't mention that in front of my dad, unless you want him to give an hour-long presentation on a Muggle sport that even most Muggles don't understand.'

Draco, having decided to follow her advice and abandon the subject, allowed his gaze to take in his surroundings. Even though he was quite accustomed to the Muggle world ever since his stay in France, he'd never actually been inside a Muggle household before. He shouldn't have been surprised that it didn't look much different from a magical one. The telly and all the other electrical items were surely a giveaway, as were the unmoving pictures, but other than that, the Grangers' living room looked completely normal.

'I've tried a new recipe for sugar-free hot cross buns,' said Helen as soon as everyone was seated. She pointed at the plate sitting on the coffee table. 'I hope you'll like them. But I'm afraid there's –'

'No cake, no pudding, or anything else that could've even remotely come in contact with sugar, I know,' finished Hermione with a grin. 'Honestly, Mum, when will you stop apologising for not making anything sweet?'

'You're right, darling. Now – who would fancy a cuppa?'

Everyone did, and Draco felt some of his nervousness wash away with the hot drink as soon as it touched his lips moments later.

'So, Draco,' began Helen, 'aren't your parents expecting you for Easter?'

The unease crept back with a vengeance; Draco managed to not choke on his tea only with difficulty.

'Um, actually …' he mumbled sheepishly, not quite sure of what to say. He wanted to be polite and thus honest, but telling them the truth that he would much rather not be in his parents' company didn't feel like the appropriate thing to say, either.

His mother had been disappointed when he'd declined her invitation, under the pretext of spending Easter with Theo, who had no family. It was bad enough that he didn't have an excuse to avoid her birthday party, too, which was a fortnight away. Draco wouldn't have cared so much if it weren't for the guests he knew would be coming; he really wasn't keen on seeing all those people whose presence he'd come to despise.

And here he was, a skilled Occlumens, struggling to bend the truth. Thank goodness Hermione didn't seem to have any qualms about feeding her parents a white lie.

'Oh, they're on holiday at the moment,' she said quickly. 'Why don't you show my parents what you've made for them, Draco?'

She looked at him intently, eyebrows raised, and Draco thanked her silently for the diversion.

'Yes, right.' He retrieved a small, wooden box from his pocket, set it on the table and tapped it with his wand, upon which the box grew to the size of a cauldron.

Draco looked at Helen and saw that both she and her husband were following his movements with interest and delight; Hermione had already told him that they enjoyed watching magic being performed. He gave the box a nudge towards them.

'This is for you,' he said. 'Thank you again for inviting me.'

'We didn't even expect gifts!' said Helen excitedly. 'Thank you.'

'Not at all.'

Draco cocked his chin towards the box, silently urging her to open it, yet Helen hesitated; holding her hand in place an inch away from the lid. 'There's nothing in here that bites, is there?' she asked with a cautiously raised eyebrow and a wry smile. 'Like that one book we bought for Hermione once? Remember that, Robert?'

'How could I forget? It tried to gnaw my bloody fingers off – sorry.'

Draco's lips curved upwards at the (admittedly amusing) mental image of Robert Granger wrestling with  _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , while a younger and severely more buck-toothed version of Hermione tried to tame it with Spellotape. 'I can assure you,' he said with as straight a face as he could, 'nothing will bite, maim, or harm you in any other way.'

Helen chuckled, opening the box and looking at – Draco knew, of course – a set of vials holding differently coloured liquids. Robert took one of them out, perusing it with a quizzical look in his eyes.

'Something tells me that these are not perfume,' said Helen, examining a flask of her own.

'You're right, they're not,' said Draco. 'It's a potion I have come up with – a modified Sleeping Draught that induces certain dreams, the source of which are memories. So basically, once you drink them, you fall into a light sleep, reliving someone's memory. It's similar to using a Pensieve, but the experience is slightly different; more like a combination of a Pensieve and a Daydream Charm. I call them Drinkable Memories.'

Draco looked up into the two Muggles' faces, confusion flashing across them.

'Sorry, you probably don't know what a Pensieve is, do you?' he asked, wrinkling his nose, and Hermione's parents shook their heads in unison. 'Let's just say these here all contain one of Hermione's memories. If you drink them – and there's always two of each – you will doze off for a few minutes and become the observer of a specific moment in her life. She hand-picked them for you.'

'Wow, I …' said Robert in a hushed voice, his eyes darting from Draco to Hermione and back, 'I don't know what to say. This is amazing. A bit …  _unusual_  – but amazing.'

'What kind of memories?' queried Helen.

'My favourites,' said Hermione, smiling brightly. 'Some of them you'll recognise … you know, from our holidays together and such. Others are memories that do not involve you, which is why I wanted you to see them. For example the moment I first saw Hogwarts – I've always wanted to show you. The thing is, Pensieves are incredibly rare, let alone expensive. I also wouldn't know if they can be used by non-magical people, to begin with. But these'– she pointed at the box –'are just perfect. Draco's always been a brilliant wizard, you know, especially at Potions.'

' _Wizard_ , yeah …' snorted Draco. 'I remember vividly that no matter how hard I worked, there was always a certain  _witch_  who surpassed me, every year.'

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione blush.

'Thank you,' repeated Helen, now reading the labels on the bottles. '"Crossing the Great Lake" … that's the one you just mentioned, isn't it, sweetheart? "Opening presents on Christmas morning" … "Mont-Saint-Michel with Mum and Dad" … "Sandboarding on Moreton Island" … "Exploring the castle" – this is wonderful!'

Helen's face was glowing, and she strongly reminded him of Hermione then – albeit technically, it was the other way round.

'I'm glad you like it,' said Draco. 'Hermione told me that after she restored your memories, she noticed some of them were incomplete, damaged. That's why I came up with the idea to make these – even though their purpose is not to fix your memories. They're just meant to be enjoyed.'

'But they're not reusable, are they?' asked Robert.

'No.'

'So we'll make sure to not waste them,' said the older man.

'What about new memories?' said his wife, shutting the box's lid and meeting the confused faces of Hermione and him. 'I mean you two'– she gesticulated towards them –'I hope you've made lots.'

'Oh, we have,' said Hermione, shooting a quick glance at Draco and reaching for his hand. He liked the way it felt – smooth and warm. 'Although it's getting more and more difficult to keep it to ourselves.'

'Keep what to yourselves?' asked Helen. 'That you're seeing each other?'

Hermione nodded.

'Why would you want to do that?'

'Mum … you know well enough that Draco and I haven't exactly been friends in the past.'

'So?'

'So?' echoed Hermione incredulously, a touch of shrillness cutting its way into her voice. 'So everything! People will talk! I told you about this Skeeter woman; if we're seen in the magical world, there will be gossip about us. Besides, Ron –'

'Oh, don't you have any trust in your friends?' said Helen. 'I can't imagine Ron will be an issue. Tell him before he reads about it, and you'll be fine. Harry and Ginny already know if I am not mistaken? The others will come around, too, I am sure. As for everyone else … they can just shove off, don't you agree?'

'Look,' began Robert, before Hermione could so much as open her mouth, 'your mother and I have been talking a lot over the past few weeks, ever since we ran into each other.' He pointed first at himself and then at Draco. 'To be completely honest, I had a hard time accepting you two being together initially. I still remember all those times you wrote us, sweetheart, sometimes on tear-stained parchment even, because of – well, because of you, Draco.'

Draco swallowed hard, meeting the stern, brown gaze of Robert Granger. There it was – his guilty conscience, in the shape of a pair of very familiar eyes.

'But,' he carried on, 'it's been a long time. You've both grown up, and, as I understand, long since moved on from certain political conceptions, isn't that right?'

Draco nodded firmly, not once breaking eye-contact with the man in order to make his sincerity clear.

'We've all made mistakes once and were forgiven,' continued Robert. 'It's only fair to treat others with the same candour and disposition.'

Draco couldn't believe his ears.

'But,' stammered Hermione. 'This is different! Like I said, people will talk. We were on different sides during the war; they won't understand. They will call this a scam, or –'

'Since when do you care what people say about you?' interjected Helen. 'I remember you never used to be bothered by it. Well, except that one time when it got truly ugly … ugh, I was so cross with all those tossers – sorry. You were fifteen, for goodness' sake –'

'See? It could easily get ugly again,' said Hermione. 'Only this time, it doesn't just involve me.'

She looked at Draco then.

'I don't want anything to happen to you. Who knows what people send in the post? Besides'– she turned back to her mother –'there is a war going on again, against a terrifying enemy who's after Muggle-borns and blood-traitors. Being with me out in the open will compromise Draco's safety.'

Draco stared at their intertwined hands. He had never thought about it that way. All this time, he'd assumed keeping their relationship a secret had to do with how her friends, his parents, and everyone else would react.

'And … sorry, Draco, but you're not safe unless you solve that problem of yours.'

'What problem?' asked Robert, and Draco flinched. He did not like the direction this conversation was taking, yet he had promised Hermione to be open about that particular subject.

'Do you know what a Dementor is?' enquired Draco. Hermione's parents nodded their heads. 'Do you also know what a Patronus is?'

'Yes, dear,' said Helen. 'Hermione has told us all about them.'

'Well, I …' He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling ashamed having to admit it to someone other than Hermione and Theo. The former gently squeezing his hand certainly helped to alleviate some of his discomforts. 'I can't produce one,' he said eventually, levelling his gaze with her parents'. 'It's not uncommon to struggle with it, it's a difficult spell after all – but that's not it. My past is blocking me, and I haven't figured out how to overcome that yet.'

'We've tried many things so far,' said Hermione. 'All sorts of memories, meditation techniques even, and, well, talking about the past events. At least we tried – it's difficult.'

Draco couldn't agree more. As much as he'd like to be completely open with her, he just couldn't. There were certain things he just didn't want to talk about; most of the questions posed by Hermione he'd left unanswered.

'Well, that doesn't surprise me at all,' said Helen. 'Of course it's difficult! Look, I am no expert. I'm not even a witch, despite my mother-in-law's insistence – sorry, Honey'– she shot a facetious look at her husband, who only shrugged, chuckling –'But you do pick up on certain things once you have a magical child. Even I can tell that this spell requires something truly strong, not dwelling in what cannot be undone. Isn't the Patronus all about happy memories? Brooding won't help you find any. I'm not saying that talking about what's happened isn't important, but there's a time and place for everything, and there's a difference between being mindful of your past and drowning in it. Yes, there is much you'll need to tackle eventually, but it doesn't have to be now. Just be together … grow together. Don't allow the past to destroy you – you can deal with it once you've built a strong enough present. That's why I support the idea of you two going out in public. Trees cannot strike roots in a confined space.'

Despite having long since buried his anti-Muggle upbringing, Draco caught himself being surprised that a non-magical person could give such insight into something so clearly magical – and meaningful. He scolded himself instantly – try as he might, some of the old misconceptions still seeped through to his thoughts sometimes. But old ways or not, Draco would have never expected their visit to take this turn. And Helen had a point, even though he was not entirely convinced that ignoring his past would help him make progress. At least for the time being, however, he felt a little better about it all.

'Life is always dangerous, love,' he heard Robert say. Apparently, Draco had missed a chunk of the conversation, but none of the Grangers seemed to have noticed. 'I could get hit by a car every time I cross the street!'

'But there's a difference between walking across the street and practically  _begging_ to be attacked.'

'You make it sound like I don't know how to hold my wand right,' said Draco – to his utter surprise, he was slightly amused. She was so fierce when it concerned him.

'No, of course not, I just –'

'Hermione,' said Helen calmly, Hermione ceasing her babbling immediately, 'you're not the first couple to face obstacles, you know. Our world has seen countless wars … do you really believe you're special? Don't take this the wrong way – I'm not saying this to belittle your struggle. I'm saying this to encourage you. Others have done it, and so will you.'

Hermione sighed in defeat; now it was Draco who squeezed her hand.

'I don't know about you,' said Robert, 'but I could use a bite to eat. It's always the same with you two; all that arguing makes me hungry.'

'You might have married the wrong woman then,' said Helen, a playful twinkle in her eye.

'Most definitely not.'

Her husband returned the smirk, but Draco saw much more than that: complete and utter adoration. While he knew that his parents loved each other (however unbelievable it may seem at times), the chemistry between Robert and Helen Granger was something unlike anything he'd known from growing up at the Manor – palpable, infectious even. They made Draco reflect on love – actual love – for the first time ever since he and Hermione had started dating. When he turned his head around to look at her, she was smiling at him already.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione was knackered. She appreciated her parents' advice, but addressing all those serious topics was nonetheless tiring. That's why – after a lovely dinner with a lot of casual conversation as well as the typical "So, Draco, what do you do?"-sort of questions – Hermione gladly retired to the kitchen to help with cleaning up; there was something meditative about doing it the Muggle way.

'Are you alright?' asked her mother, handing her another sauce pan to dry up.

'I don't know,' she replied candidly.

'Sorry sweetheart, I might have got carried away earlier,' said Helen, scrunching up her face. 'It was all a bit much today, wasn't it?'

Hermione nodded. 'I really get what you're saying, but it's just that there are so many questions I don't know the answers to. I would never go and ask Draco that, trust me – but what about … the things he did during the War?' She turned her voice into a whisper. 'I still don't know if he's ever killed someone before.'

Saying it out loud made Hermione shudder.

'Would the Draco you know do that?' asked Helen after a short while of doing the dishes in silence.

'No –'

'Then I don't think he has. War does terrible things to people – think about everything you had to go through. But even all things considered, he doesn't look like a killer to me. You were all children, and from what you've told us, Draco was probably the most frightened of all.'

Hermione swallowed, recalling the way he'd looked at her while she was being tortured by his aunt; no malice in his eyes, nothing of the sort. Just despair, disgust, and fear.

'But don't you think it's important to address these things?' she asked softly.

'Hermione, listen,' said Helen. 'I can only repeat myself: the time will come that you talk about all of it. Don't make the mistake to do it too early and allow it to destroy you. What you have now … these first months of being together, they'll never come back. Embrace them. I don't want you to be in danger, but I trust you to know how to go about it without putting yourselves in jeopardy.'

Hermione felt a smile tug at her lips – imagining a walk down Diagon Alley, holding hands with Draco, made her heart pound with an anticipation similar to the one she felt when she'd first fallen for the mask he used to wear.

'Dad's right,' she said finally. 'We do talk a lot, don't we?'

'Well, healthy discussions sharpen the mind, I'd say. And by the looks of it, you and Draco aren't any different – which is a good thing, the way I see it.'

'Where have they gone to, anyway?' Hermione looked over her shoulder, trying to peek into the sitting room, where her father had eventually lectured Draco about cricket after all, completely ignoring his daughter's incessant pleading that he not.

'I think Robert's showing him the house,' said Helen, putting away the scourer and drying her hands on a nearby towel. 'Come on.'

Just as they were about to search for the two men, Hermione heard her father roar with excitement.

'Oh, that's wicked!' he hallooed, the sound of his voice coming from upstairs. Hermione rushed up, curious about what had induced such a reaction.

'Dad, what's going –'

She and Helen stumbled in on a scene which couldn't have been more delightful – it was just what her weary mind needed. There they were, her father and Draco, standing in front of the table which he'd turned into a landscape scenery for his model railway – only that something was different.

'Look at this, love,' said Robert, pulling Hermione and her mother forward. She could now see that not only the trains, but all the little plastic figurines were moving; walking around, boarding and alighting the trains, hiking in the fake grass hills, and waving at one another. 'I don't know what he did, but isn't it brilliant?'

Hermione met Draco's gaze; he smirked and wiggled his eyebrows at her.

'Perpetual Animation Charm,' she muttered. 'Not bad …'

'Perpetual?' said Robert, looking hopefully at Draco. 'So it'll stay like this?'

'Technically, it could.'

'But?'

'I'm afraid this falls under the misuse of Muggle artefacts,' explained the blond apologetically. 'I will have to lift the enchantment once we leave.'

'Pity! But what can you do? The law is the law.'

'Exactly,' said Draco. 'Sorry.'

'Oh, don't apologise.' Robert sliced the air with his hand. 'Magic never ceases to amaze me, and it's wonderful having you round.'

'Thank you, Sir.'

'Dad … I think he'll have to lift the enchantment now – I'm cream-crackered,' said Hermione, unsuccessfully trying to not let it show. 'I want to go home,' she yawned into her palm.

After announcing it, it took them another fifteen minutes to finally leave – what was it about saying good bye that made you suddenly think of several new topics to talk about?

'Well, that was interesting,' said Draco, as soon as they landed on her sitting room floor.

'Sorry – my parents can be quite a handful sometimes.'

'You're alright.' He pulled her into a hug, and Hermione had to concentrate to not fall asleep in his arms; his smell was like a Calming Draught to her. 'They're good people. I like them.'

'They like you, too,' she mumbled.

'Merlin, you really are tired,' chuckled Draco. 'Don't fall asleep just yet – you still need to brush your teeth, remember?'

When she lay in bed a few minutes later, one arm wrapped around Draco's chest and feeling his heartbeat, Hermione knew that she didn't want to be without him anymore. She wanted to tell him, but all that escaped her mouth were sleepy murmurs. Her thoughts, too, became fuzzy shortly. Before sleep pulled her down into the realm of dreams at last, she swore to herself that she would make the most of the time they had together – savour every new memory made. After all, it had only just begun.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco woke up to the sound of heavy breathing and the sensation of Hermione's arm thrashing about, hitting him in the side.

'Hermione.'

He pushed himself up and turned towards her. Sweat was beading on her wrinkled brow; she had her eyes closed and teeth clenched, the guttural sounds she pressed out making his insides writhe.

'No … no, please … it's me …' she wailed.

He called her name again, holding her arms in place to keep her from lashing out.

'Don't … don't touch me,' she said desperately, and Draco almost let go, but realised quickly that she couldn't possibly be talking to him. She threw her head from one side to the other, muttering incoherently, Draco understanding only half of what she was saying.

'Please … h-help me  _please_ ,' he made out.

'Shh, Hermione … I'm right here – wake up.' He kissed her forehead, running his hand soothingly over her back. 'It's alright; it's just me.'

She woke up with a loud gasp, wincing within his hold.

'Wh-what – what's happening?' she stammered. Draco pulled away so that she could see his face. He gave her a warm smile, not wanting her to notice his concern.

'You had a nightmare,' he said, brushing aside one of her chocolate curls. 'You were talking in your sleep. And you hit me,' he added with a chuckle.

'Sorry,' she said, 'did I hurt you?'

'No, don't worry. Are you okay?'

Hermione closed her eyes for a moment, and when she opened them again, teardrops were caught in her lashes like morning dew in a cobweb.

'All that talk about memories earlier …' she said eventually. 'I just – they were there, my parents. I was looking for them, but … but they didn't recognise me.'

Draco pulled her close and muttered into her hair, 'But they  _do_  know who you are. It was just a dream. It's okay.'

'I know,' she snivelled, 'It just felt so real, and then …'

'You told … well, someone not to touch you,' said Draco, backing away slightly as to look her in the eye. 'What was that about?' he asked, even though he had a rather good idea.

'I … I think I saw Nathan, that guy who –'

'Oh I know well enough who he is,' said Draco bitterly. 'I should have cut his fucking balls off when I had the chance.'

'Don't say that … he's not worth your attention. I only saw him for a second anyway. He – he turned into Bellatrix.'

Draco's chest felt as if a searing knife had stabbed him. Of course he wasn't the only one plagued by nightmares. She had all the more reason than him to still dream about that wretched day – which dated back almost exactly four years, Draco realised glumly.

'I'm sorry,' Hermione said all of a sudden.

'What are  _you_  sorry for?' Draco asked disbelievingly. 'If anyone should apologise, it'd have to be me. I was the one who didn't –'

'That's not it. We said earlier that we'd focus on the present, not dig up the past. This clearly belongs in the past.'

'I know, and I trust your parents' opinion, but don't you think it's important to talk about this?'

Hermione shrugged. 'You were a prisoner just as much as we were. You did the right thing by not ratting Harry out, and that's all you could have done. There was too much at stake – I don't blame you for what she did.'

'I suppose so,' said Draco, although at least in his nightmares, Hermione was indeed blaming him for not stepping in, just like Padma did. Sodding dreams and their suffocating walls of guilt.

Draco felt Hermione's hand around his. Licking each other's wounds – he supposed it would never really be any different with them. Whether they wanted to leave the past behind or not, they would always be damaged children of war.

'Are you going to tell them tomorrow?' asked Draco after a while. He knew Hermione would be visiting the Burrow, to commemorate rather than celebrate the Weasley twins' birthday.

'I think so. What have you planned?'

'I don't know yet,' said Draco. 'Keep working on my essays maybe. Patronus practice. And perhaps I should look for more places.'

He'd spent the past weeks searching the newspaper ads for possible venues where he could start his own publishing company, all the while gathering the gold he needed. Writing essays on his Potions experiments and findings was simply a great pastime for whenever he was alone and didn't want to face the frustration that was Patronus practice; something he kept doing all the same. Perhaps more for her than for himself.

'Okay, that's good.' Hermione tried to sound cheerful, and Draco appreciated the gesture.

'I thought we could go out for lunch together on Tuesday,' she suggested, searching his gaze. 'You know … out in the open.'

'Are you sure?'

A small, cowardly part of him wanted her to take it back; the repercussions he could definitely do without, especially when it came to his parents. The bigger part, however – the one filling his chest with pride – wanted everyone to know that Hermione Granger had chosen him, Draco Malfoy, and no other man. She was neither a trophy nor a means to an end, yet Draco had to admit that he'd like to shove their being together into all of their stupid faces.

'Yes, I'm sure,' she said. 'I want this. This is serious –  _we_  are serious.'

'Alright,' said Draco, leaning in and kissing her. 'But I need this week still to find a place and get started. Can we do it Friday? I could pick you up at your office.' Draco's thoughts suddenly decided to veer off. 'By the way – have I ever told you how bloody hot you look in that skirt of yours? Merlin, you in that skirt in that office –'

'Having fantasies now, are we, Malfoy?' she breathed against his lips. Draco inhaled sharply, but even telling himself to focus did not help to divert the direction his blood flow was taking then. Funny, the way a conversation could make a U-turn within mere seconds.

'Admit it, you're thinking about it, too,' he said, resuming the kiss with more fervour. He could still taste salt on her lips; perhaps he should be more considerate. Hermione, however, made that immensely difficult.

'I'm not denying it,' she whispered, pulling him towards her.

'Friday then.' He was almost panting, trying to not let her feel his arousal. She had just been crying and was in a vulnerable state, after all.

_You're such a wimp_ , scolded his inner voice – or was it something else that did the talking?

'Draco?' she said softly.

'Yeah?'

'I don't want you to hold back.'

He groaned into her mouth; this woman would be the death of him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, let me apologise for taking so long! I wrote a short Dramione story during my holiday (check it out if you haven't already and are in the mood for a light read), and struggled a bit with picking up Faceless afterwards. Hopefully, that block has gone now and I'll be able to resume my usual uploading rhythm. Cross your fingers for me!
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting :) Especially you, MalfoysMuggleMrs. We. Fucking. Got. This.
> 
> Cheers, Phinoa


	18. First Time for Everything

**When life gives you lemons, keep reading.**

* * *

— CHAPTER EIGHTEEN —

_**First Time for Everything** _

The week following Easter was eventful to the brim – utterly unreal and hence, Hermione felt, passing by as if it were a time-lapse sequence.

George spent the first half of his birthday alone, like he did every year, but allowed his friends and family to keep him company throughout the remainder of the day. Molly, ever zealous to not allow her grief to show – mostly for George's sake – pulled together a dinner which could have easily rivalled one of the more sumptuous feasts at Hogwarts.

Regardless of the delicious smells filling the air, Hermione found that she could barely eat; she kept shooting glances at Ron. They were friends once again – a journey which had taken several years of ignoring each other, keeping at a polite distance, and overcompensating with far too many cordialities. Only over the past half year had they begun to behave naturally around each other again.

Hermione took a deep breath. Tonight might be the night she battered a sledgehammer at what they'd so laboriously built up. Though her mother's words from the day prior rang in her ears: "don't you have any trust in your friends?"

She did; she'd trust them with her life. And she realised that she would put her life in Draco's hands, too. That alone ought to be reason enough to open up to Ron. Just because they'd shared a history together didn't warrant keeping secrets from him.

'Ron?' she tried to get his attention from across the garden table.

'Hm?' Ron gulped down his bite of pudding.

'Do you have a moment?'

He looked a tad bewildered, but then again, that sort of belonged to his standard set of expressions, so it was hard to tell whether he actually was.

'Sure,' he said, shoving back his chair and whispering something into Ayano's ear. Hermione stood up as well and walked over to Arthur's shack where he kept all things Muggle; she could have sworn that several pairs of eyes were following them.

'So,' drawled Ron, rubbing his neck, 'what's up?'

Hermione pursed her lips and sharply blew out some air. This was even harder than she'd initially thought.

'Hang on,' she said, drawing her wand and Summoning a bottle of Firewhisky from the kitchen. The alcohol burnt, but she took a large swig nonetheless – how could Draco actually  _like_  this devil's brew?

'Hermione … what's going on?'

'I … um – oh for Godric's sake,' she stammered, taking another sip. And another, until Ron eventually snagged the booze from her hands.

'Bloody hell, Hermione, is it that bad?'

'No?' She scrunched up her face. 'It's not bad at all, actually. I'm just scared you'll yell at me.'

Ron blinked a few times in a row.

'Yell at you? Why would I do that? Hermione, listen.' He slowly put the bottle onto the ground as if it were a firearm. 'I promise I am not going to yell at you.'

Hermione bit her lip and stared anywhere but in the redhead's bright blue eyes, nodding, and bracing herself for what she was about to say.

'I'm seeing someone.'

'Oh? But that's fantastic news, isn't it?' She noticed how Ron cocked his head around, trying to catch her gaze. 'Is it that bloke Sally set you up with?'

Hermione eventually looked up, shaking her head.

'No, she never set me up with anyone – sorry I lied to you.' She took a deep breath. 'I'm seeing Dr –'

It was as if something swallowed her speech before it had the chance to come out.

_Come on, get it over with._

Ron looked at her expectantly, and Hermione shut her eyes, bubbling out her boyfriend's name as though saying it quickly would defuse the situation.

'It's Draco. Draco Malfoy.'

Silence.

Only broken by the distant clattering of metal against porcelain which carried over to the shed, along with animated chatter and laughter. Somewhere, two garden gnomes were apparently having an argument, if the coarse  _caw-caw_  was any indication.

Hermione warily opened her eyes. Ron just stood there, flabbergasted, eyebrows mingling with his hairline and his jaw having at least dropped two storeys. He closed and opened his mouth several times in a row, giving Hermione the bizarre impression of a fish.

'Um …' he made before furrowing his brow and shaking his head, then going back to making the fish-like motion again. Hermione didn't know what to say, so she just kept her mouth shut, giving Ron all the time he needed.

After a seemingly endless couple of minutes, he said, 'Alright, let me get this straight. You're going out with  _Malfoy_.'

'Yes.'

' _The_  Draco Malfoy.'

'Yes.'

'The Draco Malfoy you hit in the face.'

'That's the one,' said Hermione sheepishly.

Ron made an uninterpretable humming sound, then fell silent once again. He was surprisingly calm, but somehow, that flustered Hermione all the more.

'Ron, listen,' she said, eager to defend Draco from whatever grudge Ron still harboured against him, 'he's changed. He's not at all like he was in school and –'

'Hermione, I kn–' began Ron, but she didn't take note.

'He knows that he's made all the wrong choices back then –'

'Hermione,' repeated the redhead, far more determined this time. He held up his palms in a pacifying gesture, not once breaking eye-contact. 'It's fine.'

'It is?'

'Yes. Look, you don't have to tell me. I happen to know all that – well sort of.'

Now  _that_  surely came as a surprise.

'What do you mean?'

'Well,' sighed Ron, chuckling, 'now that I think about it, he's probably done it on purpose … sneaky ferret.'

'Done what?' persisted Hermione.

'He's been coming into our shop for weeks now.'

'You're kidding.'

'Why would I be?' said Ron. 'I have to hand it to him; he's shrewd. I bet he was trying to get on civil terms, for when you'd finally tell me.'

'Well?'

'Well'– he shrugged –'it worked. I s'pose he's an alright bloke.'

Hermione felt as if she'd just caught the Snitch – or at least how she imagined it would be. Triumph and relief alike rushed through her body, ultimately coming out in the shape of the longest breath ever to be held in history.

'He never told you, did he?' asked Ron, apparently enjoying himself at the notion of Draco plotting without her knowledge. Hermione shook her head in response, and Ron carried on, 'Bought a set of Daydream Charms recently, seemed especially interested in the Quidditch one … claimed a friend had told him – hang on, I once told Leon about it when you two were stopping by. Do they know each other?'

Hermione pressed her lips together tightly.  _That_  was a whole other story.

'Superficially,' she replied curtly.

'Well, anyway,' Ron kept going, 'he stopped by a few other times before that, claiming to buy gifts … always far too polite and what have you. You know, I was beginning to get suspicious. Next time, I would have definitely said something.'

Her friend then pulled a face which could have been either a grin or a grimace, Hermione couldn't be sure.

'Malfoy … Merlin, Hermione. I have to admit; I would've never seen that coming.'

'Me neither,' admitted Hermione, although a smile tugged at her lips.

'So … you know I must ask.' Ron shifted from one foot to the other, accentuating each word with a hand gesture. 'How in Godric's name did that happen?'

'It's a long story.'

'Well,' said Ron, grinning broadly and throwing an arm over her shoulder. 'you'd better get started then.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

After talking to Ron, telling her other friends the truth became much easier. Hagrid and Neville, seeing as they hadn't spoken to Draco in many years (for good reason), were a little harder to convince than Ron, but they, too, seemed somewhat understanding. The fact that Draco had stepped in to save her at the New Year's Gala certainly helped her case, however, it didn't undo the many wrongs he used to commit. Considering that Draco had been equally cruel to both Hagrid and Neville, she couldn't resent their being wary – Hermione just hoped that time would ultimately work in her favour.

Luna, on the other hand, was neither surprised nor sceptical.

'You've always had this chemistry,' she stated simply, not once looking up from her plate. It was Thursday afternoon, and they'd met for cream tea.

'You think?' said Hermione incredulously. She couldn't recall having chemistry with Draco before this year.

'Of course,' piped Luna, spreading clotted cream onto her scone. 'Didn't you slap him once?'

'Yes, because he insulted Hagrid. But how is that chemistry?'

'What about the Yule Ball?'

'You were there?' asked Hermione.

'Oh yeah … Kevin Entwhistle asked me to come – funny boy he was, kept talking to me about turnips – anyway, everyone was looking at you that night, even Malfoy.'

Hermione raised a suspicious eyebrow at her friend. She recalled Draco's verbally attacking her prior to the ball, the memory making her heart heavy. During the event itself, he'd not said anything to her, but that still didn't count for anything. No, as much as she'd like to believe in previous attraction, she just couldn't lie to herself – they'd hated each other's guts back in the day.

'Luna, I'm sorry to say this, but please stop reading things into the way we despised each other during school,' she said firmly, whereupon Luna gave her an understanding smile.

'I'm just saying, you don't pull the pigtails of a girl you don't fancy,' she said dreamily.

'Well, it was a bit more than pulling pigtails, I reckon.' Hermione absently stirred her cup of tea. 'But you were right about one thing,' she continued, presuming that Luna could easily stomach the whole truth. She'd told Ron, but neither Hagrid nor Neville knew about "Leon" – it wasn't that she didn't trust them; Hermione simply preferred revealing the secret after a layer of dust had settled upon it.

'You had quite of a hunch back when we met at Ginny's,' she said. 'About … Leon being someone else.'

Luna's eyes protruded from their sockets, unblinking. 'No …' she breathed. 'You're not saying Draco –'

'That's exactly what I'm saying,' said Hermione, smirking at Luna's uncanny ability to read people as well as picking up on things more quickly than most – she hadn't been put in Ravenclaw for nothing.

By the evening of the same day, Hermione began to miss Draco terribly. She knew he'd been busy, but that didn't change the fact they hadn't seen each other all week. All she had from him were a few letters written back and forth, now piling up on her bedside table.

When Hermione lay in bed later that night, eyelids already falling shut, she picked up his last letter, which had arrived around dinnertime. Sleepy as she was, she brought the parchment to her face, finding immense comfort in the faint scent that lingered on it.

 _I can't wait to see you tomorrow_ , it read in his elegant handwriting.

_I meant what I said about that black skirt of yours last weekend – it suits you. Exceptionally well._

_Sweet dreams, lioness_

Before she could so much as put the letter back, Hermione fell asleep, crinkled parchment in hand and thinking about lying in his arms – hopefully, it was enough to indeed give her sweet dreams.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

It was half twelve when he knocked. Hermione stood up from her desk and straightened her skirt, taking a deep breath before opening the door for him. She felt particularly brave.

'Hello, Miss Granger,' smirked Draco, taking his time as he gave her the once-over. 'I'm glad to see you took my hint.'

'Are you now?' She turned his back to him and sashayed toward her desk with as much grace and allure as she could muster; Hermione was sufficiently out of her comfort zone, but she revelled in knowing that his gaze was following her skirt-covered backside with every step.

_Oh, if only he knew._

'I was lucky today,' said Draco.

'Lucky how?' she asked as soon as she'd propped herself atop the table, pressing her knees together coyly – as if she were.

'The security bloke I was assigned to let me through without asking me any stupid questions, although he took his time when he patted me down. I reckon he fancies me; I don't know.' He casually waved his wand at the door to lock it, and Hermione swallowed, knowing exactly what it implied.

'Hm … I can't imagine why.'

'Is that so?'

Draco hung his robes by the door and walked up to her. He was wearing jeans again, this time paired with a black button-down shirt.

'You look incredibly sexy, Hermione,' he said calmly, standing right in front of her now and making her heart beat so fast it almost hurt.

'You, too,' she breathed, mesmerised by the way his eyes seemingly burnt themselves to her very core.

 _Play it cool, Hermione!_ You  _wanted to seduce_ him _, remember?_

'I mean …' She cleared her throat. 'What brings you to my office today, Mr Malfoy?'

'Oh, you know,' he murmured, leaning forward and leaving a trail of kisses on her skin. 'I would disclose my intentions, but I'm afraid it's a private matter.'

Without further ado, his hand slipped between her knees, prising them apart gently, but with a determination that made Hermione shiver. She felt hot already; giving into his silent request and parting her legs further.

His hand brushed along her inner thighs, painfully slowly, while her core twitched with anticipation, his touch wandering further up and towards her outer curves. When he finally reached the dip in her hips where the hem of her knickers would have normally been, his hand came to a sudden halt. Hermione couldn't help but smirk.

'Why, what a pleasant surprise,' purred Draco. He pulled away from her neck and captured her lips eagerly. 'I believe this warrants a reward,' he added in between kisses.

Hermione almost shrieked as Draco pulled her hips forward to the table's edge and knelt down, shuffling up her skirt until she was bare before him. Hermione found herself stunned in the moment; the view so lewd that watching it alone made wetness pool between her thighs. It only intensified when he grabbed her arse cheeks, Hermione intuitively spreading both legs farther apart as his breath and the cool air sent her neurons tingling.

'Such a good witch,' said Draco, using two fingers to splay her folds before diving in.

Hermione moaned as his tongue swiped all the way across her wet lips. Throwing her head back, it occurred to her how amazing it was that every time felt like the first time again. The sensation of that initial touch never failed to feel thoroughly exhilarating, making her clench her thighs and breathe a whimper in response.

It didn't take long for her gaze to lower itself again – the sight of Draco, eyes closed and running his tongue against her was too alluring to resist; the way he licked her swollen bud as if it were his favourite pastime …

'Draco, I …' Hermione whimpered. 'Stop, or I'll …'

Draco complied with her wish, granting her clit one final moment of attention before retreating and standing up. Hermione swallowed upon spotting the prominent bulge in his trousers.

'Sorry,' she muttered, 'I just –'

'Shh, it's okay,' said Draco, his silver eyes glistening with desire. 'I want you to enjoy this a little longer …'

He leaned forward for a sultry kiss, Hermione tasting herself on his breath as she wrapped her legs around him. Draco's hands found the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one by one; the new lace bralette she wore exposed her to the air regardless of the fabric, making her nipples perk up and drawing Draco's attention towards her chest and away from her lips.

'Merlin, Hermione …' was all he said before stroking her breasts, making sure to exert only a little pressure – after almost two months of shared intimacy, Draco knew exactly what she preferred. Prior to their relationship, Hermione could have never pictured herself seducing someone in her office without wearing any knickers. With Draco, it suddenly came natural, though not any less exciting.

She revelled in his made-to-measure touch as he teased her hardened buds, the sensation oddly being more intense through the thin layer of fabric.

'Keep touching yourself,' he demanded calmly, abandoning her breasts in pursuit of her wet heat.

It was as if he'd put her in a trance. Hermione felt like he could ask anything of her, and she would comply – although knowing that he would never ask the impossible gave her all the security she needed. She trusted him implicitly.

'What if someone knocks?' The forbidden thought had popped up all of a sudden, though Hermione realised with a pinch of shame that the very notion made her skin crawl.

As if Draco had read her mind, he asked, 'Would you like that?'

'I … no, I – I don't know.'

'It's okay – I'm not judging you,' he said with a smirk, squatting down again and causing another thrill of anticipation to rush through her body.

'Just … knocking,' Hermione defended herself breathlessly. 'I don't want anyone to actually –'

'I know.' He looked up at her, unblinking. 'I suppose you'll have to be quiet then.'

With that, he resumed his ministrations from earlier. After a lifetime of being quiet in libraries, the task seemed impossible all of a sudden; Hermione pressing her lips together tightly as to muffle the many renderings of lust that threatened to roll off her tongue. Remembering what he'd asked of her, she cupped both her breasts, massaging them for that extra ounce of pleasure.

She whimpered her protest as Draco drew away to take a peek, only to go back to pleasuring her again. Watching past her own hands kneading her breasts to see Draco lapping at her wet folds easily pushed her towards release. She felt it draw closer and closer …

'Come for me, Hermione,' he breathed in between strokes. It was too much. Hermione bit down, desperately trying to suppress the loud moan that wanted to escape as her muscles clenched, her entire body tingling and shaking with the most exciting orgasm – his tongue guiding her along until the very last spark of her high was exhausted.

'You really do listen to me.'

Hermione's eyelids fluttered open, meeting his darkened gaze.

'I like to,' she admitted, eliciting a wolfish smirk. 'I like that you know what you want.'

He just stared at her for a moment, not once breaking eye-contact. Then …

'I want to fuck you.'

'How?' she asked, voice purposefully layered with bashfulness.

Draco shook his head ever so slightly, saying, 'Do you have any idea what you do to me?'

'Maybe –'

'Turn around.'

It wasn't even remotely a question. Hermione did as she was told, and when he added a firm "Bend over", she did. Chest pressed against her desk, she splayed her legs for him, hearing the rustling noise of his jeans and feeling his hands on her curves again. He pushed the skirt further up, moving closer. Hermione felt the tip of his cock brushing her core before he dragged his length all across her wet slit.

When he finally entered her, it was all Hermione could do not to cry out. The outcome of his nimble tongue, as well as the position he now utilised, made her incredibly tight; the guttural sound escaping Draco's lips an indicator of the sensation she provided.

'Salazar's cock, Granger,' he growled, slowly pulling out only to bury himself inside her all over. Hermione relished this moment, as always – it was when he was at his most vulnerable, and at the same time, his most appealing.

Hermione moved her hips forward as to signal him that she was ready – an invitation Draco accepted without hesitation.

His thrusts were passionately rough, inexorable. He smacked against her as he sped up the pace, grabbing her by the waist for balance and falling into a steady rhythm which Hermione accompanied with a symphony of hushed sighs.

'You're so fucking tight,' he pressed out – Godric, how much she loved hearing those words. He desired her. Draco Malfoy desired her beyond imagination, never failing to make her feel as though she were all that mattered in the world.

'Come inside me then,' she teased, knowing that he wanted to; that her actually uttering the words would have the same effect on him as his previous demand had had on her.

Draco kept pounding into her, and Hermione could feel his climax building. She clenched her walls to give him that additional boost of intensity, and Draco slowed down abruptly, filling her wave after wave while clutching her hips as if his life depended on it.

'That,' he panted, pulling away after a short while of composing himself, 'was something I have dreamt about doing for a long time now.'

Hermione turned around and rearranged her clothes, watching Draco as he did the same, yet not before casting a quick  _Tergeo_.

'Well, I hope everything has been to your satisfaction then, Mr Malfoy,' she smirked, rummaging in her bag and pulling out her knickers – she hadn't come into work bare, after all! She wasn't  _that_ raunchy.

'And then some,' said Draco. He stepped closer and pressed a sweet kiss onto her lips, brushing his thumb across her cheek. 'I could make a habit out of picking you up like this.'

'You should.'

'Your colleagues might notice.'

Hermione shrugged, pecking his lips once more before collecting her wand and robes, bracing herself to throw her and Draco under the bus that was wizarding London.

'As soon as we've officially outed ourselves, do you think that would make any difference?' she posed.

Draco chuckled. 'Quite right. Although next time'– he wiggled his eyebrows suggestively –'we might want to cast a Silencing Charm.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'Are you ready?' asked Draco, holding out his hand to her as if he weren't in the least bit nervous about doing so in public. She took it, nodded, and flashed him one of the most contented smiles he'd ever seen on her face. Draco couldn't help but be a tad smug about her state of mind being due in no small part to himself.

The instant they entered Diagon Alley, he felt heads turning and eyes burning holes in them. Trying to ignore the stares, he said, 'I want to show you something. I know it's not much of a surprise … but still.'

Wizarding London appeared to be busier than before the revelation of the Faceless. Ever since the heightened security measures, many witches and wizards considered it safer to be in Diagon Alley than in their own homes – which was true in most cases; not all houses had ancient and impenetrable protection like the Manor or Grimmauld Place.

Unfortunately for them, the crowded streets came not only with glares, but also hushed voices.

'Is that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger?'

'No, they can't be.'

'Use your eyes, of course it's them!'

'Do you think he Confunded her? Miss Granger, are you alright?'

Try as he might, it was impossible not to feel bothered, Draco resisting the urge to cast a volley of Stinging Hexes as to shut everyone up. Next to him, Hermione looked just as tense – gone was her serenity from mere moments ago.

'I want to punch them,' she pressed through clenched teeth, and Draco couldn't withstand a smirk at her apparent penchant for crude, non-magical brutality.

'I thought those were exclusively for me,' he chuckled, in spite of himself.

'Are you saying you'd be jealous if I hit somebody else?' Hermione teased.

'Hm … jealous would imply that I care about you.' He flashed her an almost-sneer and received a light punch to his arm in response.

'I take that as a thank you, for earlier,' he said quietly, so that only Hermione could hear him. She huffed at that, but had to bite her lip as not to grin, Draco adding, 'Yeah, I like you, too.'

Hermione snaked her arm around his waist then, and Draco hugged her shoulder in return. Thus entwined, they made their way through the crowd as if cutting jungle vines. It didn't take long until the first camera flashes dazzled their view.

'Ignore them,' he muttered to Hermione, as well as himself.

'Easier said than done,' she said hotly, although Draco knew her anger wasn't directed at him. They kept their heads down all the while, bulldozing through the streets.

'Oi, leave 'em alone,' someone yelled of a sudden; Draco recognised that voice. Ron Weasley bustled forward, his brother George in tow.

'C'mon, inside,' said the latter, ushering them into the joke shop while the younger Weasley made rude gestures at the curious onlookers, accompanied by an array of slurs.

As soon as the shop's doors shut, Draco and Hermione both breathed a sigh of relief.

'Are you mental?' Ron asked them. Turning around to the customers, he said, 'Nothing to see, folks … ten percent discount if you stop looking! Now – what were you thinking?'

Hermione looked as though she were about to either cry or explode, and Draco felt a pang of guilt. This was all because of him. With just about any other man, this wouldn't have escalated as much.

'We no longer want to hide,' she explained, not managing to banish the shakiness from her voice altogether.

'Those people are like piranhas,' said Ron. 'It's a miracle they haven't torn your robes apart.'

'We had to come out eventually,' said Draco, running a hand through his hair.

'I s'pose … oh, by the way – you're a manipulative git.'

'Excuse me?' Draco raised one eyebrow dangerously.

'Oh, quit that look,' said Ron, unfazed, 'I had to say it this once – just now seemed about the right time. You've been playing me for weeks.'

_Oh, that._

'Yeah … it worked though, didn't it?'

Ron only rolled his eyes.

'I think that's as much as you're going to get out of him, for now,' said George, coming up from behind them. 'Now, what can I do for you two? Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder perhaps?'

Draco's stomach turned, remembering the first and only time he'd ever bought that particular item – and used it later to lead Death Eaters through Hogwarts castle.

'No, thank you,' he denied with a lump in his throat. 'We can always use Disillusionment Charms.'

'While that horde keeps running into you?' asked George. 'Not going to work, mate.'

'As much as I hate all this,' Hermione chimed in before Draco could ponder over George Weasley calling him "mate", 'I think we'll have to stick it out. We knew this would happen, although I could do without the stupid comments. But they'll stop caring eventually … I hope.'

'What did you come here for anyway?' enquired Ron.

'Lunch,' answered Hermione.

'And I wanted to show her the place I bought,' added Draco.

'What place?'

'It's an old shop on Carkitt Market – I'll refurbish it and make it my editorial office.'

'Editorial o-oh …' Ron silently mouthed his understanding. Draco already knew that he knew and was all the more glad for Hermione's interception.

'Thanks for pulling us out of that … that carnage out there,' said Hermione, jerking her thumb at the door. 'But we should go if I want to make it back to work in time. Some of us still have superiors, you know.'

'How are you not head of the department yet?' chortled Ron. 'Famous war heroine and all?'

'That's  _not_ how it works, Ronald –'

'Hermione, I was just teasing –'

'I thought you wanted to go,' Draco reminded her before she could take out her frustration on the redhead. He took her by the shoulder and gently nudged her towards the door.

Going back outside was like entering a corridor past curfew, despite knowing Peeves, Filch, and Mrs Norris were having a tea-party in it; although Draco would have gladly exchanged the nosy mob for Peeves and the Hogwarts caretaker, who, for the record, would never have tea with the poltergeist.

Fortunately, some witches and wizards seemed to have enough decency as to look away, or even better, tell others to do the same. By the time they reached Carkitt Market, less and less eyes appeared to be following them.

_Sensationalism wears off quickly; you should know that._

'This is lovely,' said Hermione, examining the shopfront of Draco's newest acquisition.

"Lovely" was one word – rundown another. The previous owner hadn't taken care of it for what seemed like decades; paint was spalling, and the windows were covered with a thick layer of dust. However, it was nothing a few Cleaning Charms couldn't fix, and the interior was big enough for office space as well as printing works.

'Glad you like it.' Draco reached for Hermione's hand, squeezing it. The impressions of that day were overwhelming, to say the least, and he needed that shred of comfort.

'When do you want to get started?' she asked after a little while of just standing there together and looking at his new business.

'I thought I could buy some equipment tomorrow … you can come along if –'

'Of course I want to.' Hermione looked up at him, and Draco was once more reminded of just how much he cared about her. What with being in public, the kiss she gave him then rather took him by surprise.

'What?' she said, looking away as if abashed; as if they hadn't just had amazing sex in her office, but kissed for the first time.

'Nothing,' he said. 'I bet that's going to make the front page.'

Hermione shrugged. 'Let them. I don't c –'

She was interrupted by her own stomach growling conspicuously.

'I don't think we have enough time left for eating in somewhere,' said Draco apologetically. 'Would you be fine with getting some takeaway?'

She was. They bought sandwiches and pumpkin juice and made themselves comfortable on a bench, constantly being aware of their curious and mostly disapproving audience. Though not particularly necessary, Draco dropped Hermione off at her office again. He had no valid reason other than that he wanted to; besides, they were the talk of wizarding London either way.

Hermione already had her hand on the door handle when she said quietly, 'I knew it would be bad, but this … this was awful.'

Draco cupped her cheek and said, 'It'll get better, I promise.'

'Sadly, this isn't up to you,' she chuckled endearingly.

'If I curse them all, it is,' he said, eliciting a warm and most of all kissable smile.

'You know, my colleagues are going to see,' she said as Draco tilted up her chin, bringing his lips close to hers.

'Oh, I know,' he smirked against her. 'But isn't that the point?'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

As soon as Draco got home, his gaze fell upon the letter that lay on his dinner table. The invitation was nothing short of sophisticated; its high-quality paper and intricate lettering practically screaming "rich" and "pure-blood". Perhaps it was Lucius's loss of reputation which made his mother overcompensate – whatever the reason, Draco was not looking forward to that party, especially considering the aftermath of his and Hermione's first date in public.

Many families his mother still associated with were prejudiced "traditionalists"; running the gauntlet earlier that day was nothing compared to what he'd have to face at that wretched event.

Yet go, he would – it was her birthday, after all.

The image of his mother suddenly flashed across his mind, admonishing him for not telling her about Hermione personally, but having to find out through the papers. She was right, even in his imagination; his mother at least had a right to hear directly from him.

Draco climbed up the stairs to his study, intuitively reaching for one of his better pieces of parchment, writing:

_Dear Mother_

_I have something to tell you that you should hear from me first before reading about it in the papers tomorrow, or sometime this weekend, as they will surely cover it._

_I have a girlfriend; we have been seeing each other since the very beginning of the year, and have established that we are in a relationship about two months ago. We went out in Diagon Alley for the first time today, which will inevitably cause an outcry. When you read the news, please be aware of the web of lies they will surely spin to hurt our reputation._

_The reason I haven't told you sooner was mainly that I thought you might not approve – or rather, Father, who, I am certain, will want to disinherit me as soon as he gets wind of her identity._

_Though I am free to choose who I want to be with, I am still part of this family one way or another, regardless of how he decides to deal with the situation. I just hope you will be more open-hearted than I suspect he will be._

_I can see you wrinkling your nose at my beating around the bush, Mother, so here you go: The woman in question is Hermione Granger._

_See you next weekend_

_Draco_

_PS: I will not bring her._

He furled the letter and after some tired protest on Altair's behalf, bound it to the owl's leg, watching as the large bird disappeared behind the clouds a moment later.  _This is it_ , he thought. There was no going back now, and, Draco was sure, nothing to keep hell from breaking loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's out there! Everyone knows! And no, Ron doesn't throw a fit – he's grown up, too.
> 
> Thank you all for bearing with me. I will spare you the excuses for not posting more regularly; I suppose that's just how it often is when a story progresses, though I can promise that I will not abandon it.
> 
> MalfoysMuggleMrs, you have my thanks, as always. You're the best!
> 
> If you're interested in something silly, check out my new one-shot, "Inherently Inappropriate", in which Draco tries weed for the first time – including a shameless Dramione plug, because let's be honest, I'm a hopeless case.
> 
> Until the next instalment, which will be quite different from the others.
> 
> Phinoa


	19. Making Amends

— CHAPTER NINETEEN —

_**Making Amends** _

_Theo stood amidst the remnants of what had once been the fifth corridor on the left on the second floor, cracked stones, shards, and wooden splinters scattering all over the ground._

_His wand hand was shaking, and not without reason; you don't have your own father at your mercy every day._

_Thaddeus Nott looked more broken than Theo had ever seen him – literally. He lay backwards on the ground, his right arm sticking out in a repulsive angle. One of the corridor's arcs had collapsed on top of him; his shattered Death Eater mask lying beside his blood-stained face._

_A grin which couldn't have been described as anything but insane contorted his worn out features._

_"Aren't you going to call your Auror friends?" he cackled. "I'm sure they'll reward you for catching me … not that it was very difficult – the bloody castle did all the work."_

_For the first time in his life, the tables had turned. Theo could hear the cries of victory from afar, knowing that they had won. They – the ones he didn't belong to, either. Yet. Voldemort was defeated, and Theo would finally be free. All that stood between him and his new life was sprawled on the ground before him._

_"What, having second thoughts after all? Or … oh, I see what's going on. You're considering it. Good."_

_Theo clenched his jaw so hard it hurt. One spell, and more rocks would fall atop his father, burying him for good. No one would ever need to know._

_However, if he handed him over (which would be the right thing to do) there was the slim chance that he might betray his Death Eater friends and thus live a free man – free to keep treating Theo the way he had his entire life. Let alone, the trials which he would have to attend, testifying against his father and being forced to see him over and over again until the final sentencing. It was a prospect which made Theo break out in cold sweat._

_"What are you waiting for then, son?" Thaddeus snarled, forcing Theo's attention back to the man he despised. "Kill me."_

_It was all he could do not to spit in the older man's face. "I am not your son," hissed Theo. "And I won't stoop as low as you."_

_He couldn't. He'd never been a killer, and he wouldn't become one now. The man who claimed to be his father wasn't worth tearing his soul apart for._

_"What are you going to do then? Hand me over like the traitor you are?"_

_"Stop talking," Theo pressed through gritted teeth._

_"Why? You're making a mistake, Theodore! We can work together, just because the Dark Lord's gone –"_

_"I said STOP TALKING!" Theo panted heavily, making the decision within a split-second and Levitating the large brick that kept his father in place off of his legs. The wand which had killed so many Theo snapped in half, throwing Thaddeus the pieces as he snarled, "Just … leave. You're dead to me. Run. And don't you_ ever _come back …"_

When Theo opened his eyes, he had a hard time telling whether he was truly awake. The steady breathing to his right made clear that he was, and he allowed his eyes to fall shut once more.

_"You're making a mistake, Theodore."_

How right he had been – that fucking cunt.

Theo turned to the right, clutching the blanket tightly to his chest. Tracey looked so peaceful in her sleep; nothing appeared to disturb the deep slumber, and Theo was relieved not to have woken her.

Granted, he wouldn't mind hearing her voice, yet what would he possibly tell her? That he was responsible for letting his arsehole of a father go, who was now very likely involved in a radical group terrorising the entire continent?

No one knew. If he withheld the truth from his best friend, he could hardly tell his girlfriend of a few months.

Responsible – to some extent, at least, he was. Of course, Theo didn't know for sure whether his father was indeed a member of the Faceless, but what were the odds of his being innocent? He snorted into his pillow.

_If he survived, that is._

For all Theo knew, his father died trying to escape, what with a broken arm and internal bleeding and no wand to fix any of it. But if he hadn't …

He turned back around, peering at the clock on the opposite wall. It was almost half seven in the morning – still early an hour to get up on a Sunday, but not too bad. He'd just shower and make breakfast for Tracey; thank Merlin she'd decided to chat him up at Gringotts, bringing him a sense of joy Theo never dreamt was possible.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

'So, when will you be going to Blaise's?' asked Tracey, noshing the last of her toast.

Theo swallowed his sip of pumpkin juice before answering, 'He told me not to come any sooner than four.'

'So that you don't run into them shagging?' chuckled Tracey. Oh, how Theo loved her bluntness.

'Probably.'

He still couldn't quite understand what Blaise wanted with Pansy; she had grown into her looks, yet those weren't the problem. _Definitely_ not.

'What are your plans for later then?' Theo asked. Though he would like to take her with him, he knew Tracey and Pansy had never got along very well; placid and blustering simply didn't make for a good pair.

'I want to visit my grandmother,' she said, reaching for another piece of toast and buttering it. 'She hasn't been that well lately … thought I'd stop by. Other than that … probably read that book you gave me.'

She flashed him a warm smile, and Theo felt his heart skip a beat. Weirdly, their relationship was in many ways like their friendship back when they were kids: mutually enjoyed quiet with the occasional use of a sharp tongue, expanded only by further application fields of the latter.

As opposed to Theo, Tracey and her relatives were very close. He would have been a tad jealous, had the Davis family not made him feel so welcome.

'When do you want to go?' he asked.

'As soon as she's back from her stupid _Witch Weekly_ reading group'– Tracey rolled her eyes –'it still doesn't get in my head how people actually care about this shite, let alone discuss it. There just isn't anything exciting in their lives, is there?'

'I s'pose …' muttered Theo quietly, his thoughts suddenly skipping to Draco. He would bet all his savings (which admittedly weren't much to speak of) on that lousy excuse of a magazine slandering him and Granger.

'So … we've still got a few hours to kill,' said Tracey, tilting her head in that adorable habit of hers.

'Anything in particular you'd like to do?'

Tracey shrugged, making a quaint humming sound. 'I don't know. Play a game of Exploding Snap?'

'Sure, why not?'

'But,' Tracey's lips curled up into a roguish smirk, 'the loser has to do the winner's bidding for … let's say one hour.'

Theo mirrored her expression, having quite a good idea of what she was _actually_ saying.

'You're on, Davis.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Theo turned up at Blaise's house generously delayed. The place in Hampshire was lavish, almost a mansion; owned by his mother, who, however, did not use it. Hence, it was practically his.

'Hey, mate, come in,' he was greeted as soon as the door opened. If Theo wasn't mistaken, his friend looked rather irritated.

'Hey, everything alright?' asked Theo, although Blaise didn't have time to answer.

'Is that Theo?' called Pansy from afar. She stuck her head out of a door across the hall, strutting towards them with her heels' clicks accentuating each step. 'Theo, you won't _believe_ what I just read,' she said without so much as a hello.

 _Cutting right to the chase, are we?_ thought Theo. He had a rather good idea of what she'd heard of.

'Merlin, Pans, let the man breathe,' said Blaise, failing to banish the exasperation from his voice.

'I'm just saying,' she objected, 'Theo will certainly want to know …'

'I'm sure it can wait until he's at least taken his bloody robes off,' hissed Blaise.

Pansy tilted up her chin. 'Fine,' she said uppishly, 'I'll make myself a drink then.'

'You do that.' Blaise breathed a covert sigh of relief as Pansy pivoted on the spot and sashayed away. 'Don't say a word,' he addressed Theo as soon as she had vanished in the kitchen.

'Wouldn't dream of it.'

They made themselves comfortable in the sitting room; Theo and Blaise were catching up on news and work and life in general, leaning back with a Butterbeer Stout each. The longer they talked, the more jittery Pansy became. She kept scurrying about, sitting down on the armrest next to Blaise just to get up half a minute later, at least two rounds of classy drinks being tossed down over the duration of her nervous dance.

'Salazar's balls,' Blaise groaned after she had walked in and out of the room for the fifth time within the past minute. 'Just show him the sodding article and get it over with.'

'Finally,' muttered Pansy, delicately flicking her wand. ' _Accio Witch Weekly_.'

The magazine zoomed into her hand, Pansy offering it to Theo before making herself comfortable in Blaise's lap – he chuckled inwardly at how Draco used to bask in that girl's attention. Times certainly had changed.

Theo glanced at the cover, instantly recognising Draco and Granger. They were walking arm in arm, braving the storm that was Diagon Alley on a busy day. Another smaller photo showed the two kissing.

'Read it,' demanded Pansy, constantly cocking her head towards the glossy magazine in his lap. 'Go on, read it.'

Theo flipped through the pages, apprehensive of the defamation the two had to endure. The entire issue appeared to be about them – most of it comprising photos and juicy captions such as "Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy – a couple we never thought we'd see" or "So soon? The unlike lovers in front of their new home". What a steaming amount of bullshit that was – the respective photograph showing not anyone's home, but Draco's new company building.

And then there was the article itself. Theo had to stop himself from gagging at the ridiculousness of it, which (who would have thought) sprung from Rita Skeeter's quill. He only skimmed the introduction – rife with a wide array of vocabulary like "scandalous", "bizarre", or "shocking" – and moved on to the main part. As if that were any more valuable …

_The main question we ask ourselves now is why? And how?_

_Granger and Malfoy, whose childhood-animosity towards each other is practically unrivalled, did generate quite a shedload of buzz not only on Friday, but also on Saturday, when they were seen shopping for furniture together and bringing it to their new place on Carkitt Market_ (see photos on page 14) _before going out for waffles at Florean Fortescue's_ (see page 15) _._

_"They've only been together for two weeks," reported a reliable source, one of Granger's closest friends. "And yes, I can confirm that they are indeed moving in together." Quite the questionable decision, considering not only the brevity of their liaison, but also the uproar it will undoubtedly cause among the friends and families attached._

_Although it is virtually common knowledge, we would like to remind everyone that Hermione Granger is Muggle-born, while Draco Malfoy – a former Death Eater – comes from an ancient, pure-blood family notorious for their history of anti-Muggle politics_ (be sure to check out next week's edition with a special on the Malfoys) _._

_Malfoy and Granger's respective backgrounds make a relationship between the two not only highly unlikely, but outright unfathomable._

_Frieda Frinston, 59, said she could have sworn to have seen "the Malfoy boy Confund Miss Granger" before parading her through wizarding London. Could Granger really be a victim in this matter? Perhaps; although the "brightest witch of her age" isn't necessarily known for her modesty when it concerns the men who fall for her._

_One of those men couldn't have been any clearer about his opinion on the new couple: none other than Ronald Weasley was seen dragging his former lover into Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes on Friday, angrily shouting in the streets. It isn't Weasley's first public outburst, though the reason this time can hardly be resented …_

The article went on and on about Granger and Weasley's mutual history, as well as ludicrous conspiracy theories about a love triangle. Theo looked up from the paper, brow wrinkled in disgust. Pansy, now seated in Blaise's lap, glared at him expectantly while nervously tapping her manicured fingers on the armrest.

'This is unbelievable,' said Theo, already regretting to have opened up the unavoidable conversation. It was the moment she'd been waiting for ever since he walked through the door.

'I know, right?' she shrieked, completely misconstruing his statement. 'This is outrageous! How can he lower himself like that? And _he_ is supposed to have Confunded _her_? Please … if he were in his right mind, he wouldn't touch that tart with a barge pole!'

Pansy panted for breath and carried on, 'I mean … they say he dropped her off at the Ministry, and they have been seen kissing twice! Look at that picture on page two and tell me he isn't under the influence of Amortentia –'

'Pans … I'm going to tell you the same thing I did this morning,' interrupted Blaise calmly. 'You're overreacting. Draco doesn't look at all like he's Imperiused or Confunded or has drunk a love potion, and neither does Granger.'

'But –'

'And you've got to accept the truth that he's going out with her.'

'But she's a _Mudblood_!' Pansy spat venomously. 'Although now that she's practically begging for it, the Faceless are going to get her soon anyway – good riddance. Lucius is such a spineless coward … _our_ fathers would never allow our sacred blood to be defiled like that!'

'What do you mean – _our_ fathers would?' questioned Theo, her conspicuous phrasing even overshadowing the anger he felt towards her death wish for Granger. 'My father is dead,' he added grimly. It was a lie, of course. A lie he had told so many times that he began to believe it himself.

'What? I – no,' she sputtered, 'I'm just saying, Lucius has gone soft! If my father were to have a say in this, such an abomination would never be allowed to mingle with one of us. He'd fucking force Draco to leave her, by any means necessary. And I'm convinced that your father _would_ have done the same, _if_ he were alive.'

'Right … if.'

Theo glowered at Pansy, still pondering on her exact choice of words. Did she know something? That would mean …

'… just thinking about her filthy mouth touching him … maybe they both deserve to be kissed –'

'That's enough!' Blaise spoke up, Pansy wrinkling her nose at him. 'I for one am past this whole "Mudblood" drivel! And siding with the Faceless now? Have you fucking lost your mind?'

'I don't know, have _you_?' she retorted. 'It seems to me like _you're_ the one siding with the enemy.'

'That's ridiculous, and you know it,' growled Blaise. 'Just leave the man in peace, and stop believing everything they write in that rubbish paper!'

'Fine.' Pansy rose vigorously, her mouth now a thin line. 'You think she's hot all of a sudden, don't you? That's _clearly_ more important than her dirty blood …'

'Merlin, Pansy …' groaned Blaise, rubbing the bridge of his nose. 'Whether I find her attractive or not has absolutely nothing to do with it! This is about positioning ourselves in our society, and you've just made abundantly clear where you see yourself – and that's nowhere I want to be.'

'You're pathetic, the both of you,' she snarled. 'What, got nothing to say Theo? That's your best friend right here, betraying us all.'

'I have nothing to say to _you_ ,' said Theo, trying not to let his anger show; he knew Pansy well enough that she revelled in riling people up.

When she realised he wouldn't feed her anything else to fret about, she champed with rage, snatching the magazine out of Theo's hands and flouncing out, but not before slamming every single door she encountered on her way.

Blaise exhaled sharply, and Theo shot him a knowing look.

'At least she was a good shag,' said his friend dryly.

Theo chuckled despite himself. 'I still don't get what you saw in her.'

Blaise only shrugged, taking a sip of his drink. After a while, he said, 'So you and Tracey, huh?'

'Yep.'

'And Draco and Granger.'

'Yep.'

'Did you know?'

Theo answered with a curt nod, downing the rest of his beer.

'So? How did it happen?' probed Blaise. 'I mean, I can't possibly believe a word they wrote, can I?'

'You can't,' said Theo. 'And it's a long story.'

'Whoa there, not all of the exciting details at once …'

It appeared Blaise wouldn't let him leave without getting at least a morsel of information; hence, Theo told the slimmed down version of how they became a couple – of course leaving out the spicy details about a certain identity-altering potion.

'Have you met her?' asked Blaise as soon as Theo finished the story. 'Recently, I mean.'

'No, but I assume I will any day now. Especially now that they've outed themselves.'

'What do you think about them then?'

'I don't know if I have an opinion' shrugged Theo. 'As far as I know, Draco truly cares about her, and I haven't seen him this happy in … I don't know how long. So that's good enough for me. Besides'– he leaned back in his seat –'Granger and I got along relatively well in eighth year – meaning that we actually behaved like normal people whenever we were assigned to work as a pair. It's certainly an asset that we don't despise each other.'

'True.'

Another minute of silence followed before Theo addressed the Erumpent in the room, 'So … do you think she's in touch with them? With the Faceless?'

'I don't know,' said Blaise, brows knitting together. 'The way she talks … it certainly makes you think so, doesn't it?'

'Yeah … but she's probably just like her parents. Always sympathisers and supporters, but never out-in-the-open followers. Always doing what is safest for them – which is not generally wrong, but still hypocrisy at its best.'

'Although the way she talked about her father makes you wonder whether he's involved,' claimed Blaise.

Theo nodded torpidly, his thoughts racing again. What _if_ he was involved? What if his father was, too?

'Granger and Draco, they're both in danger now,' noted Blaise.

'I know,' said Theo, staring at his knees. 'And they know, too. They'll stick to safe places only, just like everyone else. Until the Faceless are caught, no one is safe. Not even you and me.'

'What do you think will happen? Will the Ministry get them?'

'Perhaps.' Theo looked up, all of a sudden noticing a single, black hair sticking to Blaise's jumper. He bent forward to pick it off his friend's shoulder.

'Just a hair,' explained Theo casually before Blaise had the chance to ask. 'Listen, I've got to go,' he added quickly, standing up. 'I'm going to join Tracey and her parents for dinner.'

'I guess I'll just order pizza then,' said Blaise. 'If the Muggle delivery bloke finds this place, that is.' He accompanied Theo to the door, the entire time complaining about how Pansy never wanted to eat anything touched by Muggles.

'Blaise – shut it,' said Theo finally. 'Stop your whinging. You brought this to yourself.'

'S'pose you're right.' Blaise wagged his head ever so slightly. 'Seriously though, mate – should I ever so much as insinuate that I want to get back with her, kill me first.'

Theo couldn't resist the smug grin that spread across his face.

'It'll be my pleasure.'

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

First thing Monday morning, Theo fell in with the many witches and wizards who worked at the Ministry. The entrance hall was thoroughly packed – what with the security check everyone had to go through, getting in and out of the Ministry took forever now. Luckily, Theo was assigned the late shift at Gringotts that day; leaving him with more than enough time to go through with his plan.

After all obligatory procedures were performed, a Ministry employee accompanied him to the second level, where he was told to wait until being called up.

'Nott, Theodore?'

After what felt like an hour, a bespectacled witch stuck her head out the large oak door.

'Mr Potter will see you now.'

Theo pushed himself up and followed the witch till she stopped at one of the cubicles, beckoning him to enter; he had specifically asked for Potter. He couldn't pinpoint as to why, but he needed to tell someone who was familiar with the witch in question.

Besides, with him, he could be quite sure about talking to someone who was likely to overlook details such as lies and illegal potions if Potter's personal history of mischief was any indication.

'Nott,' greeted Potter, holding out his hand. Theo shook it and returned the greeting; there was nothing cordial about the gesture, yet the atmosphere wasn't hostile, either.

'What brings you here?' asked the Auror, sitting back down and inviting Theo to do the same.

'I may have something on the Faceless,' said Theo. 'But I need to be sure that what I'm about to impart remains between us.'

Potter nodded curtly, instantly brandishing his wand and muttering, ' _Muffliato_.'

Theo shot the Auror a questioning look – he'd never heard of that spell.

'No one will hear us talk,' was the explanation Potter offered.

'Fair enough – how much do you have on Pansy Parkinson?' asked Theo.

'Other than her being a horrible person, not much. Despite what you might think, her behaviour is not very suspicious.'

'So you're observing her?'

'Oh yeah' said Potter, leaning back. 'But nothing so far hints at any activity linked to the Faceless.'

_Perfect._

'Alright … I suppose you came across that poor excuse of a magazine yesterday?'

Potter grimaced at the mention, which was answer enough.

'I happened to … well, for want of a better word, _discuss_ the subject with Pansy,' continued Theo. 'She isn't too happy with the news.'

'I can imagine. Go on.'

'As you can probably tell, she's the only one of, well – us, who's still as biased as during the War and before. She insulted Granger multiple times and questioned Draco's sanity. I should have known she'd react like that, but what I didn't expect was her mentioning my father.'

'Your father – he died during the Battle, didn't he?' asked Potter, and Theo shook his head.

'No, that's the thing – he didn't.'

Potter's jaw dropped significantly, and Theo gave a rough summary of the event following Voldemort's fall.

'So he's out there still,' concluded the Auror once the truth was on the table.

'To be honest, I wasn't sure until yesterday,' said Theo. 'Actually, I still can't be sure. He could have died, for all I know. But Pansy mentioned him using the present tense. Why would she do that if she didn't know he's alive?'

He shifted in his seat, carrying on, 'Ever since the Faceless revealed themselves to the public, I had this feeling – maybe even before that. But I didn't know anything for real …'

'I'm glad you're here now, but you should have said something sooner,' said Potter, yet he didn't sound accusatory.

'I know. But what's done is done. May I ask about the current state of affairs? What's your plan?'

Potter sighed wistfully. 'It's difficult to say. We've captured a few Faceless members over the past couple of months, but since the Fidelius Charm protects their headquarters, the information on their whereabouts cannot be retrieved by force – Veritaserum, Legilimency and the like are out of the picture. Infiltration is, of course, always a topic, but what we now know for certain is that they do thorough background checks. If an applicant's story doesn't add up, they won't let them in. I'm afraid they throw them into some cell or even execute them right away – that's what one of our prisoners once disclosed. That being said, we haven't found a right "candidate" yet –' Potter squinted his eyes at him. 'That's what you're actually here for, isn't it?'

'From what I've heard yesterday, Pansy is the perfect candidate.'

With that, Theo fished a flask of Polyjuice Potion from his pockets, Potter scrutinising it incredulously.

'Where did you get that?'

'Nicked it,' answered Theo nonchalantly, upon which Potter raised an eyebrow. 'From Draco,' he explained. He had lots … anyway, I took this a while ago. I can't tell you why, I just did – call it a hunch.'

'And the key ingredient?'

'Already taken care of,' said Theo, retrieving another phial, this time containing Pansy's hair.

'Why do I get the feeling that _you_ want to do this?' the Auror posed.

'Because it's true.'

'But you shouldn't. It's not your job.'

Theo gave a half-hearted shrug. 'It's not. But if my suspicions turn out to be true … I can deal with him best. I'm a bloody good liar.'

'I believe that,' snorted Potter. 'Who else knows about your father?'

'No one.'

'I hope you're aware that you gave a false testimony four years ago – I could press charges.'

'But you won't,' said Theo.

Potter blew out some air. 'No, I won't. I don't need you per se'– the Auror looked at him intently –'it's not like we don't have access to Polyjuice Potion. And obtaining Pansy's essence wouldn't be that difficult. But … you might be the best man to impersonate her. You know her better than any of us.'

'Probably. Listen, Potter, I'm not a hero, you need to know that. I'm not going to do this all by myself, even though I once thought I would. But fuck it – this is not my role to play. I have no intention of killing myself. I need a solid plan and backup.'

Potter gave a brief nod and said, 'I agree. We need to think this through. Not only do you need backup, but we also need Pansy out of the way without raising suspicion. Now, if I may ask – why do you want to do this? You do know that this whole endeavour is mental.'

Theo remained silent, knowing exactly what the answer was. He owed them; all those people who lost their lives, their souls … all those families they'd torn apart. All because of his father. Because Theo let him go.

'I was a coward,' he said eventually. 'But I'm not now. I'm going to set things right. Besides, my best friend is in danger now. And Granger with him.'

Potter accepted his reasoning, though he still made Theo swear to secrecy. Then – after spending over an hour on working out a strategy – the Auror reminded him once more.

'You can't tell anyone,' he said sternly. 'All of it mustn't leave this office. If Pansy so much as gets a whiff of what is going on, it could compromise our plan. Everything must look natural. We know for a fact that Narcissa Malfoy is hosting her birthday party on Saturday. The Parkinsons are invited. So are you – yes, we know that as well. Don't interfere – it has to escalate. Pansy has to see Draco and freak out, which will undoubtedly happen. That way, her motive solidifies.'

'Understood,' said Theo, rising from his seat and shaking Potter's hand once more. 'Shall we say that we'll discuss the details next week?'

'Yes,' confirmed Potter. Just as Theo was about to leave the cubicle, he asked, 'Aren't you worried he's going to recognise you?'

Theo turned back around, a wry smile contorting his face. What used to make his life miserable would hopefully soon turn into his father's greatest weakness.

'No,' he said confidently. 'He never cared anyway.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told you this chapter would be different ;) Hope you liked the little excursus covering Theo's backstory and scheming. Personally, he gives me lots of feels. Song suggestion: "Allein Allein" by Polarkreis 18 (works for both Draco and Theo).
> 
> I would like to thank MalfoysMuggleMrs for betaing in spite of a long and stressful day – I appreciate it so much!
> 
> Also, whoever nominated me for the D/Hr Advent fest 2017 – thank you! I'll be writing a Christmassy one-shot which will be posted here on Ao3 sometime between the 1st and 25th of December.
> 
> Cheers, Phinoa


	20. Animam Purgare

— CHAPTER TWENTY —

_**Animam Purgare** _

Draco groaned in his sleep, slowly waking up. What was that aggravating hammering noise? He felt as if a Niffler had made itself comfortable in his ear, snoring loudly right next to the eardrum …

'Stop tickling me,' he murmured. Seconds later, he heard Hermione giggle, and Draco reluctantly allowed his eyes to flutter open.

'What?' he chuntered, peering sideways at her, an amused smirk curling her lips. She shot a glance at the source of the disturbance above his head, and Draco craned his neck as far as his horizontal position allowed, spotting a big ball of ginger fur which occupied the better half of his pillow.

Crookshanks was purring contentedly, his whiskers brushing Draco's cheeks now that he had shifted his head.

'Merlin's beard, how loud can a cat be?'

Hermione answered with another snigger before propping herself up and liberating Draco from the noise by lifting the Half-Kneazle off his pillow.

'He likes you.'

'If he truly did, he wouldn't have shoved a Billywig hive into my ears,' muttered Draco, rubbing his forehead. His other hand slowly wandered towards the witch until he reached hers, gently brushing his thumb against her palm.

'Good morning,' she said after a few moments of pleasant silence.

'Good morning,' echoed Draco, inviting her over to him by jerking his head ever so slightly. Though instead of budging up, Hermione rolled around until she lay by his side, managing to end up completely tangled in her blanket.

'You look like a spring roll,' commented Draco wryly, and Hermione broke into another, rather contagious fit of giggles.

'But you like spring rolls.'

'Now more than ever.' Draco couldn't help but move on top of her, scattering kisses onto her face.

'That tickles,' she squealed, practically inviting him to do just that – with her arms tightly wrapped, she was an easy target.

'Sto-ho-hop.'

'What did you say?' he teased. 'I can't understand you.'

'Please stop,' she said, and Draco complied only reluctantly – he was enjoying himself far too much. Since when were mornings so entertaining?

'Thank you,' she added with her lips pursed, sticking out her tongue and rolling back to where she'd come from. To Draco's utter amusement, she made one turn too many and landed on the floor with a  _thump_.

'I'm okay, thanks for asking,' Hermione called indignantly; an answer to the inadvertent guffaw which escaped him.

'You are without a doubt the least graceful person I have ever met,' he chortled, as the witch in question clambered back up into her bed.

'Well, all the better that I'm not going to your mother's party tonight.' She tried to sound offended, but her smirk suggested otherwise.

'Don't remind me,' groaned Draco, falling back into the sheets.

'So, what did you get her?'

'Flowers – like every year,' he told the ceiling. 'What else do you get for a woman who has everything?'

'Flowers, really?' Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Hermione scrunching up her nose. 'That's not very personal.'

'Not very personal,' repeated Draco with a huff, 'practically my mother in a nutshell.'

'Well, I'm sure she'd appreciate a bit more effort.'

With that, she snuggled herself to his side.

'She's not as easily impressed as your parents,' said Draco, absentmindedly stroking her curls. 'A few modified potions won't work.'

'How about …' Her fingertips stalked all the way up to his t-shirt's neckline, tracing it gently and brushing his skin in the process. 'How about a rare painting? Something unique. Or give her what makes every mother happy: time spent with her son.'

Draco snorted, the movement causing her fingers to move up to the soft skin of his neck. Her light touch made his hair stand on end. She was right, of course – Narcissa would indeed appreciate a closer relationship. That's at least what he'd promised after New Year's – a promise still largely unfulfilled.

His thoughts faded into sweet nothing as Hermione's lips joined her fingers. She pressed herself against and wrapped one leg around him, the latter tantalisingly exerting pressure on his loins.

'So, when am I going to see you tomorrow?' asked the witch, whose palm was stroking his chest and wandering down to where his blood was flowing.

'Um … I –'

 _Concentrate_.

'When would be okay?' he said in a raucous whisper.

'That's what I just asked you,' she chuckled. 'Am I distracting you?'

'No –'

'Liar.'

Her hand found his erection, and Draco stifled a groan.

'Half nine?' he offered meekly. 'Your place.'

Hermione pushed herself up, straddling him and leaning forward so that she granted him a first-class view on what lay beneath the loose fabric of her spaghetti-strap top.

'It's a date,' she said with a smile on her lips, and Draco pulled her face towards his, sealing the deal with a kiss and a promise he intended to keep.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Draco arrived early to the festivities later on that night. Although he was loath to admit it, he wished to speak to his mother prior to the other guests' arrival. All she had written in response was her thanks for his honesty and the advance warning, as it were.

'Draco.' Narcissa's voice carried over to him, the sound of her heels fast-approaching. 'I didn't expect you this early.'

Draco kissed both of her cheeks, making the compliment his mother not only deserved but outright awaited. 'Happy birthday, Mother – you look fantastic.'

'Thank you, dear. Would you like some tea? There's still ample time till everyone else arrives.'

Draco nodded, an elderly house-elf materialising at a click of Narcissa's neatly manicured fingers. He was draped in a kitchen towel, and Draco realised he couldn't decide which bothered him more: the questionable status of enslavement or the fact that he failed to remember the elf's name.

At least his mother chose polite words. 'Please prepare tea for th'– Narcissa shot Draco a quick, but intense look before returning her attention back to the elf –'for two. In the millefleurs room.'

'As you wish, Mistress,' croaked the elf, bowing down as deep as his nose allowed and disappearing with a soft  _pop_.

Narcissa beckoned him to follow, even though Draco knew well enough where the millefleurs room was located. Only when they reached their destination in silence, his mother wordlessly inviting him to sit, did Draco say, 'Thank you'. The faint smile on his mother's lips suggested she knew what he was thankful for – Draco did not care for the icy glares his father would surely shoot him in response to the revelation of his girlfriend's blood status.

'Your father is in his study,' said Narcissa, as though she'd read his mind.

'Good.'

Draco's voice was brusque, the atmosphere shifting from stiff to awkward.

'Are you faring well?' asked his mother, yet Draco's reply never left his lips, what with the old house-elf reappearing, a tea tray in his hands. Narcissa muttered her thanks as he placed it on the low table between them, but before he had the chance to take leave, Draco practically blurted, 'Excuse me, but what's your name?'

The elf's eyes, huge as they already were, protruded even further from their sockets, his mouth parting ever so slightly. Then, as the short bout of dumbness passed, he bowed low, tugging at his long ears and speaking to the floor in a quivering tone, 'Fratcher is being rude … not answering the young Master's question and staring … yes, the staring … rude.'

Draco swallowed – after a lifetime of treating house-elves like the dirt beneath his shoes, he felt thoroughly uncomfortable on the elf's behalf. Merlin, if he'd ever tell Hermione, smugness wouldn't leave her expression for an entire week, he was sure.

'I'm sorry … Fratcher,' he said appeasingly, lifting his palms. 'I didn't mean to embarrass you.'

He should have known better, because Draco's kind words only made the old elf clutch his chest and look at Narcissa in sheer awe, as if asking for permission to keep breathing. She gave a curt nod, and the elf sputtered, 'Young Master Draco did not embarrass Fratcher. Fratcher is simply not – Young Master Draco did not embarrass Fratcher,' he repeated hastily before a verbal misstep could form in his mouth.

'You may leave, Fratcher,' said Narcissa friendly, though she never managed to banish the cool propriety from her voice. 'What was all that about?' she asked Draco, as soon as the elf had disappeared.

'Nothing, it's just – he's been here all my life, and I didn't know his name.'

'You never cared before,' Narcissa noted, taking a dainty sip from her cup.

'Well, apparently I do now,' said Draco, reaching for a cup of his own.

'It's got to do with Hermione Granger.'

Draco sighed against the porcelain before it touched his lips. He relished the taste of the tea before confirming, 'Yes, it has.'

'Earlier this year, I read that article about her work with house-elves,' said Narcissa. 'It was quite insightful – featured a lot of praise. The author was clearly impressed with her.'

Draco stifled a smirk – he still was. He thought back to that interview, which was supposed to be the first of many. More importantly, their date afterwards was.

'Her views challenge me,' he said at last. 'I thought I was there before, but she keeps pushing me. She makes me think outside the box, and I appreciate that.'

His mother made a noncommittal humming sound.

'So?' prompted Draco, meaning to elicit at least some sort of palpable reaction from her.

'I'm glad you've found someone,' Narcissa said eventually, and Draco felt a weight lifted off his chest. He would be lying if he said his mother's opinion counted for nothing. 'Though I'm afraid I have to say that I'm concerned.'

The previously felt reprieve vanished within a heartbeat.

'Because she's Muggle-born.'

It wasn't a question.

'Honestly, Draco,' chided Narcissa, one eyebrow arched indignantly. 'No – I'm concerned because she's been tortured in this very house.'

Draco gritted his teeth and averted his gaze as his mother carried on, 'It's not about her personally at all, dear. I am sure she is a kind-hearted witch, and your being with her will only benefit our reputation – once they stop slandering either of you. But do you really think she'll want to be part of our family? I for one would like to see my grandchildren on more occasions than once a year –'

'Merlin, Mother, grandchildren? That's a spell you won't have to cast for … I don't know how long! And that's  _if_  we work out and want kids to begin with.'

'Can you imagine having children with her?' Narcissa posed.

Draco huffed. He'd never thought about their future like that – or had he? It'd only been a little over three months since he acknowledged he was attracted to her. Since then, that initial attraction had morphed into so much more. And if he was being honest …

'Yes – maybe. I don't know. It's just all so new. But'– he slumped back into the cushions –'if there's someone I can picture as the future mother of my children, it'd be her.'

'Good to know.' His mother nipped at her tea, and Draco couldn't tell whether she was piqued, or pleased with herself. Deciding it was as much as he'd get from her, he drew his wand and conjured a bouquet of daffodils and calla lilies – her favourites.

'Oh, Draco, they're lovely,' she said with a genuine smile on her lips, accepting the flowers. With a delicate wave of her wand, a fitting vase assumed shape in mid-air.

'I thought we could go to that ballet in York you've been wanting to see,' added Draco, upon which his mother's features mellowed, a glint of surprise in her eyes.

'Draco, that's wonderful! I would be delighted to – what about Miss Granger? Perhaps she'd like to accompany us.'

Draco couldn't help but mirror his mother's expression. 'I'll ask her,' he said, though as he glanced to the left, his smile faltered quickly; in the doorframe stood his father.

'Ask her what?' said Lucius coldly. 'You're not planning to propose, I hope?'

Draco stood to meet Lucius's height. The glare he shot his father was hopefully as icy as he intended.

'And what if?' he provoked. 'How do you  _propose_ you stop me?'

'Lucius, he's doing no such thing,' Narcissa stood as well, trying to defuse the situation.

'It doesn't matter, Mother,' said Draco, still not breaking eye-contact with his father. 'It's a question of principle.'

'What do you know about principles?' snarled Lucius. 'You've done nothing but deviate from your upbringing and family values by socialising with that  _girl_.' He spat the last word as though it were poison.

'That  _girl_ is a woman with a name,' Draco rectified coolly, 'The woman you once tried to murder, if I am not mistaken.'

'I had orders. Just like you.'

'Yeah, but  _unlike_ you, I was protecting my family, not endangering them –'

'That's enough!' Narcissa spoke harshly and determinedly, causing both men to shut up and spin their heads around at once. 'Lucius … you promised you wouldn't. And Draco – stop provoking your father.'

Draco snorted. 'I begin to see what you were saying, Mother,' he said. 'She won't want to be part of  _this_ family. But that's not going to change my mind.' Looking back at the man he resembled more and more every year, he added, 'Don't worry, Father. You won't have to meet her anytime soon.'

With that, Draco stormed out of the door and headed to the nearest bathroom. He needed to calm down. One minute with his father and he was already seething. A part of him scolded himself for getting all riled up; another part acknowledged that the man was still his father – a man he'd looked up to most of his life. Merlin, he even wanted to be exactly like him once! Of course he couldn't just stop caring altogether.

He allowed a hushed string of profanities to pass his lips before splashing cold water onto his face and taking a couple of deep breaths. This would only be the starter; more people would come that night and either insult him to his face or stare daggers at him.

 _This is the price_ , he thought grimly; the price for being with Hermione – one he was more than willing to pay.

Consciously guiding his thoughts towards the brunch he and Hermione had planned for the following day, Draco walked straight to the ballroom. The first guests were now filing in, and Draco watched them from a safe distance. Some indeed threw him suspicious glances; however, none of them were inherently vile – yet.

When he spotted Theo and Tracey, Draco breathed a quiet sigh of relief, instantly making towards the couple. Passing his father and Mezentius Flint, he overheard Lucius comment in a stage whisper, 'At least Theodore still makes sensible choices.'

 _Keep walking_ , his mind reasoned – luckily, Draco's legs complied.

'Thank fucking Merlin you're here,' he greeted Theo and his "sensible choice".

'Hi, mate – did you bring her?'

'What do you think, Theo?' retorted Tracey on Draco's behalf. 'Unless she's made herself invisible, he didn't.'

'Smart-arse,' was his best friend's meek comeback, whereupon Tracey poked him in the ribs, although snaking an arm around his waist shortly after.

'I'm so sorry, Draco,' she said sincerely. 'About that bloody excuse of a magazine … I can see the way these people look at you. And your father'– her gaze hardened as it shifted to where Lucius was standing –'he should be better than this.'

'Well … he isn't,' chuntered Draco.

'Hey, at least not everyone believes those ridiculous rumours,' she said in an attempt to cheer him up. 'My grandmother for instance – she's reading that magazine all the time, but you should have seen her face when I told her it was all lies. She was furious.'

'Thanks, Tracey, I appre –' Draco stopped talking mid-sentence. One of his robe's pockets had begun to buzz – his Sneakoscope. He'd packed it just in case … with so many guests from his family's social circles, it was child's play for a criminal to mingle with the crowd.

He looked around cautiously, ignoring Theo and Tracey, whose questions faded into a blur, the whirring of the small Dark Detector intensifying by the second. Just as he turned to look at the large double door, Pansy Parkinson strutted through – her parents in tow. Draco watched as they exchanged pleasantries with his mother, although Pansy's eyes were eagerly raking the crowd the entire time.

The moment their gazes met, Draco's stomach turned with apprehension. She glared at him with an expression she'd never before used for him: pure and utter contempt. Pansy seemed to abide with her parents and Narcissa only unwillingly; dutifully waiting to be excused and – as Draco was fairly sure – make a scene.

It was the last thing he needed. Between his father thinking him a disappointment and the already staring party guests, he couldn't bear being pushed even further into the not-so-flattering spotlight. Pansy's temper tantrum was unavoidable, yet all those present becoming witness was not.

'Excuse me for a second,' Draco muttered to his friends, spinning on his heels without waiting for a reply. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Tracey making a move to follow him. Theo, however, held her back with mild force, whispering something into her ear.

It took Pansy only a couple of minutes until she joined him in the side corridor he'd sought refuge in. Draco took a deep breath as she opened her mouth.

'Is it true?' she questioned.

'Hello to you, too, Pansy,' sneered Draco. He had better retain his composure, lest he lose it completely and hex her.

'Is – it – true?' she pressed through clenched teeth. 'And don't ask "what", Draco, I know you know what I'm talking about.'

Draco inspected his fingernails, trying to appear as casual as possible. He took his time before finally answering, 'Yes.'

Words couldn't compete with the rage flaming in Pansy's eyes. She let out a frustrated, guttural sound, clenching her fists; her face assumed a nasty shade of purple, and her lips twitched dangerously.

'You can't be serious.'

'I can. And I am.'

A much louder shriek escaped her this time.

'Turn it down a notch, will you?' jeered Draco. 'You're a guest in this house.'

'And  _you're_  a fucking disgrace!' she spat. 'How dare you? You're defiling us all!'

Draco pinched the bridge of his nose. 'Don't you get it? There is no "us" – no "them". We're all the same.'

Pansy bristled visibly at his statement.

'You're delusional,' she sputtered. 'Bloody mental.'

'You know who's mental?' Draco assumed a defensive stance, gradually failing to keep the fake airiness about him as he spoke. 'People like you who still haven't overcome this mindset after everything that's happened! People who still endorse "the old ways". But you know what? If you had seen what I … people have  _died_ in this place, for Salazar's sake! And why? For no fucking reason at all!'

Pansy stared at him, incredulously shaking her head. 'She's done it – she's brainwashed you.'

'Brainwashed me?' Draco chuckled dryly. 'No, Pansy … she's saved me.'

'Ugh – gag me!' Pansy stomped around on clicking heels, each forceful step emphasising her fury. 'She's the one that will need saving once the Dementors get her – that house-elf loving, blood-traitor shagging slag –'

'Don't you dare insult her,' Draco growled.

'You used to –'

'That's right!' Draco was all but yelling now. 'I  _used_ to – not anymore! It's called  _moving on_!'

Pansy's nostrils flared, her eyes squinted and arms crossed.

'You know what?' she said, surprisingly calm after his tirade. 'Maybe I will join them – yeah, you heard me. At least the Faceless still know where Mudbloods have their place.'

If Draco hadn't been on the verge of kicking her out anyway, this particular word would have certainly exhausted his patience.

'Leave,' he snarled. 'It's you who have no place here.'

'Near a stinking blood-traitor like you is nowhere I want to be, anyway,' she spat – and not without bumping his shoulder on the way, she stormed back into the ballroom. Draco was left to his own devices only for a few short moments.

'Draco?'

His mother stood in the doorway; her brow creased apprehensively.

'I heard you two arguing, and the Parkinsons are just leaving. What did –'

'I didn't do anything,' snapped Draco, still beside himself with rage.

'If you would let me speak, Draco, I was going to ask what  _she_  did.'

'What do you think?' Draco laughed humourlessly. 'Insulted my girlfriend, of course! And that's putting it mildly … how could you invite them?'

Narcissa sighed, taking a step toward him.

'You won't like the answer – I invited them because it was expected. It's what I've always done.'

'You're right; I don't like it.'

Draco stared at the floor, but he could tell his mother was trying to catch his gaze.

'I'm not going to let her into this house again,' she said at last. 'I promise you that.'

'Good to know,' said Draco, his eyes darting up to meet his mother's. 'Sorry, I need to get some fresh air. I'll be back.'

He turned around and walked the length of the corridor before his mother could object. The moment he reached the entrance hall, Draco all but ran into the family of three leaving. Mrs Parkinson ( _What was her first name again?_ ) only glared at him, winding an arm around her daughter's shoulders and leading her out of the front doors.

Laurence Parkinson, however, confidently strode towards him; Draco couldn't deny that his presence felt somewhat daunting – underlined by the constant vibrating of the Sneakoscope.

'Well, well,' he drawled. 'Our newest blood-traitor.'

Draco felt his jaw and fists clench hard.

'Be careful what you say in here,' he said. 'People might think you're involved in a certain criminal organisation. Your daughter already made the mistake of saying too much.'

'Pray tell, why should I feel intimidated by a baby Death Eater like you? No one would pay heed to your words – you and your family no longer hold any power.'

'But you do?' Draco countered, deliberately ignoring the wilful provocation. 'It's what you want, isn't it? Gaining power through fear.'

Parkinson straightened himself to overtower Draco by a hand's breadth.

'Interesting thing, fear,' he said, his voice layered with the subtlest hint of malicious amusement. 'It can push some to do the impossible; whereas others … others it will tear apart.' The older man took a step backwards. Before he followed his wife and daughter through the main entrance, he scoffed, 'I hope you know how to protect yourself. It would be a shame if you didn't.'

As soon as the doors snapped shut, Draco gave vent to his anger. If only someone had witnessed this conversation – Laurence Parkinson had practically confessed! He groaned in frustration, pacing the hall until he reached the staircase which led to the west wing. He couldn't just leave, could he? No … his mother would be disappointed and, compared to his father, rightfully so.

Thus, Draco took the steps, his legs carrying him towards his childhood room. It was the one place he would hide in whenever feeling upset – just like he was now. First the press, then his father; the Parkinsons; all those silent accusers – arrogating the right to judge him for his personal life choices.

And yet, they had a point. Pansy and her father, at least: Hermione was a target, and so was he. An easy target at that, seeing as he still wasn't able to produce a Patronus, not even an incorporeal one.

About to turn left and into the corridor where his old room was located, Draco suddenly stopped in his tracks. He stood right in front of an enormous, ebony double door – the library.

A sudden surge of pride swelled within him; pride for his brilliant witch, who outmatched chits like Pansy in every way thinkable. It'd been over a month since their first fight, but Draco still saw her before him, all jittery while talking about libraries. He had been so upset that particular day that he didn't contemplate the possibilities. The unique option he had – that option being the extensive library situated within Malfoy Manor. She was right – there  _had_ to be a way in which he would surpass whatever was hindering him from casting a Patronus. It was worth giving a try. She was worth it.

Without a second thought, Draco pushed the doors open, the sight before him awe-inspiring. He used to spend hours on end in this place, yet the numerous rows of towering bookshelves never failed to steal his breath. Hermione would most likely keel over.

 _I need to figure out how to overcome whatever blocks me from performing the Patronus Charm_ , he thought clearly. No sooner had the words formed in his head than a collection of books zoomed towards him, forming a neat pile on one of the study desks.

Some of the books Draco discarded right away – he knew the incantation and the basic principle behind it well enough. Others seemed more promising, one in particular drawing his attention. It was an old tome called  _Via Illuminativa Pro Corpore, Mense et Animo_ ; the leather binding torn here and there, its intricate gold ornaments flaking off.

'Show me the relevant pages,' demanded Draco, and the faded parchment began to flip at high speed, until revealing a title which read "Purificatio Animi". Draco tapped the tip of his wand against the pages and muttered, ' _Convertify_ ,' whereupon the words translated into English, arranging themselves anew. Draco skimmed the introduction and perused the text only when he stumbled upon the keywords he was looking for:

 _There is a profound reason a multitude of wizards struggle with the Patronus Charm. We needn't look far to learn why – the spell as such already provides us with the answer:_ Expecto Patronum _. "I await [my] guardian" – Await, but also hope for. Expect a guardian, protector, a Saviour. If you aren't able to call upon Him, you must ask yourself whether you are in need of protection, and most of all, whether you are worthy of such._

_Only the purest of minds may raise expectations to seek protection from the light. Sinners, on the other hand, have barred themselves from earning said right. However, the pious will find solace in Him. The Lord is placable when offered sincere remorse, and He will restore the sinner's place in the ranks of the worthy, whereby they shall regain their claim to protection from the dark that corrupts the uncorrupted._

_When the clock striketh twelve and He blesseth His faithful servants with the Lord's Day, the sinner shall atone for his wrongs and undo the sentence passed. Only those truly repentant, hence those who are willing to resuffer the pain caused, may be granted forgiveness in His holy name._

At the bottom of the page stood, along with wand-waving instructions, an incantation:

_Animam Purgare_

Draco reread the passage, his brow furrowed. He flipped to the very first page of the book; it dated back to the early thirteenth century. Clearly, this was outdated – the message conveyed dubious at the very least. Then he vaguely recalled something Potter had told Voldemort on the day that he died, something about remorse.

Faith or not, there might be truth to this spell. The instructions spoke of worthiness – was he worthy? Hermione was, without question. That settled the matter for Draco.

He Magicked the tome to be lighter and fit in his pocket and returned back to the party; the longer he lingered, the less attention he seemed to attract. Focusing on his friends certainly helped to sit through the remainder of the evening, and when it was finally appropriate for him to leave, he bid Theo, Tracey, and Narcissa goodbye, again promising the latter to invite her to that ballet performance in York she wanted to see.

The moment Draco's feet made contact with his living room rug, he emptied his pockets and threw his robes over the back of the nearest chair. Even though he still had a little over half an hour until midnight, Draco already went upstairs into his study. He sat down on the floor, opening the book in his lap and reading the relevant passages for the third time. They offered nothing useful but the incantation as well as the direction to point one's wand at one's temples – a movement similar to extracting memories for using them in a Pensieve.

As soon as the clock's little hand joined its counterpart to point at the number twelve, Draco lifted his wand.

 _Don't do it_ , cautioned a voice in the back of his mind, which he, however, ignored. Just like he did every time he practised the Patronus Charm, he pictured Hermione; only now, the words spoken were different.

' _Animam Purgare_.'

At first, the pain came in small doses – in the form of a dull ache spreading from Draco's back.

His eyes jerked shut, the blackness of their lids soon becoming a screen for his memories. Only this time, Draco looked upon them as if watching someone else's life pass by. There he was – he couldn't have been older than seven – kicking at Dobby, who stumbled out of Draco's room with his back bent. The vision faded, and a searing sensation in his fingers he couldn't explain transpired as if an iron had grazed their surface.

He kept opening and closing his eyes, desperately trying to cling to reality, but it was too late. The die had been cast, his wand practically glued to his forehead; he couldn't have torn it away if he'd wanted to.

A new torment attacked his ever weakening body – this time, it was a sting to his chest. Draco vaguely heard his high-pitched voice, his child's voice, yelling and screaming, yet he couldn't make out the exact words.

More images flashed before his eyes – he and Vincent Crabbe sneaking out on Hallowe'en … it was the year before they went to Hogwarts. There were those Muggle children he remembered stealing sweets from … and then he saw that woman in the doorway, rubbing her head from the impact of the stone Draco had aimed at her. Then, without warning, it was as though something sharp hit his own head.

Shooting pain eventually replaced the dull throbbing, though it didn't fade like the first time – Draco wondered if his heart was physically getting stabbed as he repeatedly heard his condescending drawl. Most of what he said was muffled, but every now and again he identified one of his forgotten quips from younger years.

_"... that hut of Hagrid's must seem like a palace compared to what your family's used to." … "Longbottom, if brains were gold you'd be poorer than Weasley, and that's saying something."_

And it struck Draco to realise that it was all those slurs which caused the pain in his chest; they amassed, morphing into one acoustic blur. The next thing he knew, his legs locked tight, forcing him down to the floor. Although the cramp wore off quickly, Draco didn't have the strength to get back up.

His eyes filled with tears as he heard himself say "No one asked your opinion, you filthy little Mudblood", and he heaved a loud groan at the death-wish ensuing shortly after.

_"I hope it's Granger."_

It was all he could do not to scream. Scene after scene came into his field of vision, most involving Weasley and Potter and his throwing insults at them; joking about Dementors … slandering Rubeus Hagrid … repeatedly pointing out the Weasleys' poverty …

His teeth clenched so hard he thought his jaw might break. More slurs rang in his ears, and Draco realised he was reliving that same pent-up anger from boyhood in addition to each pang of forced empathy.

Draco's tears turned into violent sobs as he watched Hermione, bawling her eyes out while running to the hospital wing, her hands raised to cover her teeth …

 _"You're not telling me someone's asked_ that  _to the ball?"_

He was in so much pain now that he barely registered most of the events long since passed. The sensations were so real that he couldn't have told the difference between the spell's effect or whether there was actually someone in his study, pelting him with snowballs, throwing punches and casting Stinging Hexes at him …

 _"Go on, Draco … do it," whispered his aunt. Draco was towering above an old and ragged, blind cat. It had been roaming the Manor's gardens and would now have to pay a bitter price for trespassing – any excuse to have Draco practise the_ _Entrail-Expelling_   _Curse …_

It was nasty beyond imagination. Draco felt like vomiting, repeatedly cramping and even tasting bile on his tongue while his insides writhed in agony. Then, he felt a sharp pain in his nose as he watched himself step onto Potter's face. And it would only get worse. He knew what was coming next. Draco panted heavily, confident that it would hit him any second now …

The image of Katie Bell floating in mid-air quickly faded and Draco was overcome with the most violent sensation yet. His arms stretched to the side and his back arched – when his eyes flew open, tears streamed freely down his cheeks, and he could no longer hold back a scream, a thousand imaginary needles pricking at every inch of skin.

Katie's anguish wore off, but only for a split-second until another feeling made him all but black out. Draco's breathing became but a rattle – desperately trying to catch his breath as if battling asphyxiation.

Draco couldn't tell how much time had passed. Had it been minutes? Hours? He'd lost complete track of reality.

_His wand-hand was shaking so hard that he had to use his left for support._

_"It was an order, Draco," he faintly registered his mother's quavering voice behind him. "You have to."_

_Draco thought he was going to faint upon hearing Rowle's screams as soon as he cast the curse._

_"Crucio."_

It was too much. More than mere agony – death throes. Draco screamed his lungs out until the taste of iron made him feel nauseated, every cell in his body burning as if denatured by acid. After what felt like an eternity, in Rowle's place appeared a Ravenclaw student he didn't remember the name of … who was then replaced with Euan Abercrombie.

The last thing he saw was her. His Hermione. Her beautiful face, bloodied and tear-stained. Draco neither felt the Cruciatus Curse nor his skin cut open with a sharp blade. Instead, a different type of heaviness pinned him to the floor: the weight of his guilt. His eyesight failed then; Hermione's sobs mingling with Padma's desperate pleas before Draco drifted off into an empty void, embracing the sweet sensation of numbness it finally presented.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

The minutes ticked by and Hermione began to get fidgety. She was mindlessly poking at the pineapple cubes she had prepared for their Sunday brunch, creasing her brow and fretting. Where was he? Draco was supposed to drop by over half an hour ago.

A sickening feeling settled in her gut. What if something had happened? It wasn't as if it were possible to get stuck in a Floo network traffic jam.

'That's it,' she muttered to herself after a full hour had passed. Hermione pushed her chair aside and stepped into the fireplace.

Draco's flat was dimly-lit and deadly quiet. Light shone through a small gap between the curtains, licking at her feet. She called for him, but the silence only grew thicker after her echo faded. He had to be home; his robes were hanging over one of the chairs … Not willing to lose precious time, Hermione drew her wand and spoke, ' _Homenum Revelio_.'

As soon as the incantation fell into the room, she spotted a faint pool of light on the ceiling, her wand pointing upwards. She was certain she'd never before climbed the spiral staircase that fast. Upon opening the door to his study, her breath caught in her lungs, making her feel dizzy.

Hermione attempted to gasp for air, but it felt like she'd stepped into a vacuum.

On the floor before her lay Draco; his fists clenched; his lower legs half-buried beneath his thighs, positioned at an angle which suggested they were cramped; his back slightly arched and his clothes soaked in sweat. Altair, the eagle owl, was incessantly pecking at his sleeve.

She barely took notice of the tome that was sprawled open next to him, being too transfixed with the look on the blond's face. Draco's eyes were wide open, though unfocused. Frantic. His breathing shallow, sharp, and erratic. Nothing so much as hinted at his acknowledging her presence.

'Draco,' Hermione called voicelessly, dropping to her knees and carefully lifting his head onto her lap. 'Can you hear me?'

Her view began to blur as she heard a guttural sound coming from the man she … it didn't matter now. Hermione wiped a strand of hair out of his eyes and brought her face so close that her lashes batted against his clammy, ghost-white pallor.

'Draco …'

She kept whispering his name in between incantations. After some minutes spent with intricate spellweaving, his body lay slack against the floorboards. Draco's eyes closed as his breath came out feebly, yet steadily.

'Draco?' Hermione cradled him and once again pressed her worried lips against his brow. 'Please, wake up …'

But he showed no reaction – nothing. No matter how many spells she cast or potions she administered – no matter how many times she breathed his name; Draco remained unresponsive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I've made it this far! Ever since I worked out the idea of this spell and the circumstances revolving it (which must have been sometime in spring), I wanted to write this so badly – just skip the chapters building up to it and start with "Animam Purgare". Now I'm here and it pains me a little.
> 
> Thank you LightofEvolution, for helping me with the Latin. MalfoysMuggleMrs, I hope this was right up your alley. You have my eternal thanks :)
> 
> Most of the direct speech from Draco's flashbacks belongs to J. K. Rowling, word for word. I own nothing.
> 
> Last but not least, I want to clarify that I do not attack Christian beliefs. The book Draco found is from a time in which Christianity in Europe was radical, to put it mildly. Its depiction in this chapter is in no way connected to modern Christians.
> 
> Cheers, Phinoa


	21. The Crux of the Matter

— CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE —  
_**The Crux of the Matter**_

" _Draco … please, wake up …"_

Hermione's voice was an endless echo, repeating itself time after time, a glimmer of hope in the darkness which engulfed him. It was all there was, and Draco fought. He wanted to answer her; let her know he was there, but it was like something invisible had gagged him.

" _Draco, please …"_

He tried to prise his eyes open, yet their lids were like lead, his mouth completely cut off from his brain.

Then, someone else suddenly spoke his name.

'How's Draco?'

'Better, I hope,' said a second voice, which he instantly recognised as Hermione's. 'His vital signs look promising. I wonder if he'll …' She breathed an exhausted sigh instead of finishing the sentence. 'Any news from St Mungo's?'

A short moment of silence followed before the first, vaguely familiar voice fell into the room again.

'But the Healers still insist you bring him there.'

'I told you before, Hannah, I won't. This is the safest place for him right now – for both of us.'

'You're probably right,' said Hannah. 'After what Theo told us … he can't be plottable, especially while he's an easy target.'

Theo? Draco didn't have time to ponder the connection between Hannah Abbott and his best friend. They kept talking, and he didn't want to miss a single word – Draco tried desperately to cling to this piece of reality. Well, at least he assumed it was real.

'Should we refresh the Hibernation Spell?' asked Hermione.

'Not yet,' said the former Hufflepuff prefect. 'I'll do it later, don't you worry about a thing. Will you join us for tea, for a change?'

'I don't know … I mean, he might wake up any moment now –'

'You say that  _every day_ , Hermione.' Hannah sighed. 'C'mon – you have to eat something.'

Silence – Draco felt himself being observed.

Another sigh, then: 'I suppose you're right. Just go ahead, I'll join you in a minute.'

'Wise decision,' said Hannah. Draco heard a door open and close, then registered a weight denting the mattress beside his right arm. It was at that moment which Draco first realised he was lying in a bed.

Hermione took his hand in hers, the other soon palming his forehead. When he felt her swipe a strand of his hair away, Draco tried to say her name again, but to no avail. He couldn't tell how long Hermione sat by his side, but even if it had been years, he wouldn't have wanted her to go.

Somehow, her standing up triggered something. She couldn't leave; not now that he'd finally escaped the vortex of nightmarish visions. A force buried deep in his chest came to life, gathering all the power he had left in him – just to make her stay.

Her shuffled steps came to a sudden halt when he whispered, 'W-wait.'

She gasped, dashing back to his bed.

'Draco! Did you say something?'

Hermione brought her face so close that he could smell her, soft curls brushing his skin.

'Y-you …' he attempted; speaking was cumbersome with a brickstone for a tongue. Hermione leaned ever closer. 'You're ticklin' me.'

The instant he'd uttered the last syllable, Hermione broke into heavy sobs, throwing her arms around his neck and burying her face in his chest. Driven by the desire to hold her, comfort her, Draco finally managed to open his eyes.

He jerked them shut right away – the dazzling light practically burnt his cornea. Summoning all of his strength, he lifted his left hand to place it on her back, but it fell slack against the mattress before he could so much as reach her upper arm. Hermione looked up, and he allowed his eyes to open once more – thankfully, her upright position shielded him from the glare.

'It's okay,' she snivelled, flashing him a smile which couldn't decide if it wanted to be relieved or wistful. 'Relax … don't overexert yourself.'

'Hermione,' Draco breathed with difficulty, his chest heaving already. The witch pushed herself up a notch and cupped one of his cheeks as he spoke, 'Thank you.'

Draco knew it'd been her. He didn't know much, but that he was sure of. She'd found him. She'd saved him. Hermione lay her forehead against his, and upon closing her eyes, a lone teardrop fell onto his cheek – blissful silence reigned.

'Here.' After a while, Hermione pulled away to fetch something from the bedside table to his right. 'Drink this.'

Draco didn't even bother to ask what it was, eagerly gulping down the liquid while Hermione supported his head. It tasted of rancid butter, though within seconds, Draco felt energy return to each cell in his body; not enough to do somersaults, but it would suffice. Not that he'd ever do somersaults.

'Augmented Invigoration Draught?' he coughed, and Hermione nodded sheepishly.

'Sorry,' she said, wiping the dampness off of her lashes. 'How are you feeling?'

'Exhausted.'

'It'll get better.' She smiled weakly. Tearing his gaze from her wasn't easy, but Draco needed to check his surroundings. He heaved himself up into a sitting position, noticing the sand-coloured walls and emerald green curtains – he was neither in his nor in Hermione's flat.

'Where am I?' he asked.

'Grimmauld Place,' answered Hermione. 'This used to be Regulus's room.'

Before he could question the location, they were interrupted by a plate laden with sandwiches appearing on the bedside table. All of a sudden, Draco noticed how badly he craved a bite to eat.

'Ginny,' said Hermione softly, more to herself than him. 'She wouldn't like to hear it, but she takes after Molly more than she'd like to admit.'

She handed him the plate, and Draco muttered his thanks after helping himself. It was just a simple cheddar cheese sandwich, yet it tasted like heaven to him – like he hadn't eaten in a lifetime.

'How long have I been out?' enquired Draco as soon as he'd swallowed the last bite.

'By now,' said Hermione, eyes quickly darting upwards and then back to him, 'a fortnight?'

'What?' Draco's shocked reaction made him break into a coughing fit, Hermione Summoning a glass of water, which he gratefully accepted. 'Why didn't you wake me up?' he asked a moment later. 'Rennervate me?'

'Oh, we did,' said Hermione. 'We tried everything. You wouldn't respond – well … the times you did, it wasn't what we hoped for. Whenever we cast a  _Rennervate_ , you would have a seizure – that's why Hannah put you under the Hibernation Spell.'

Draco nodded, his gaze vacant. Two weeks … two weeks since that night, since that utterly heedless endeavour. What had he been thinking?

'I …' he began hoarsely. He didn't know what to say, but he wanted to say  _something_. 'That spell, I thought –'

'Please, Draco, you don't have to explain. I found the book … I read it. It's'– Hermione snorted humourlessly, shaking her head –'it's completely and utterly  _wrong_ and dangerous. How can a spell like that be legitimate? Torture, that's what it was! No wonder you found it in that book, it's full of things like that … claiming to be white magic, justifying cruelty with a twisted sense of faith … no. It's not even an ounce better than the Dark Arts.'

Draco winced, suddenly feeling a stinging pain in his temples.

'Sorry,' breathed Hermione, 'I didn't mean to upset you.'

'You didn't. It's just – I should have known … the entire thing seemed dodgy, and I did it regardless.'

Hermione took his hand again, and Draco closed his eyes for a second, feeling the pain abate and revelling in the comfort provided.

'While I don't approve of that medieval method, I still think you were brave,' she whispered.

'Reckless is more like it,' Draco chuckled laconically. 'It's all your fault … bloody lioness.'

He couldn't resist the smirk, pleased to see that Hermione struggled to fight her amusement as well.

'I'm so glad you're awake,' she said, leaning over and planting a gentle kiss onto his chapped lips. As Draco was about to deepen it, she pulled away and said, 'Perhaps I should have tried to wake you up like this.'

'You didn't?' Draco raised his eyebrows at her. 'I must say, Granger, I'm disappointed.'

'Oh, shut up, you.'

This time, he buried his hands in her hair, putting all he had into that kiss. It was more invigorating than the same-named potion, Draco's blood rushing to his face and limbs alike; the knock on the door rendered most unfortunate.

'Hermione?'

Draco recognised the voice right away; the Auror it belonged to did not wait for an answer but barged right in.

'Ginny told me to –'

Potter broke off mid-sentence, mouth agape, looking first at Draco and then at Hermione, who was sheepishly tucking a strand of unruly hair behind her ear – it sprung right back.

'Harry, Draco's –'

'Right, brilliant,' said Potter, rubbing his neck and shooting a glance over his shoulder as if expecting someone else to come in. 'Um … so, I assume you're okay?' He looked directly at Draco then.

'Yeah,' said Draco curtly. This was strange – from Potter asking about his well-being to the awareness of being a patient in his house turned infirmary. Just because he and Hermione had left their shared past behind in order to be together didn't mean that all former issues concerning her friends would get resolved in the same breath.

'I'll – er – leave you two alone.'

Potter jerked his thumb at the door, though before he could turn around, Hermione said, 'What did Ginny tell you?'

'Oh, that.' He grinned broadly. 'My charming wife-to-be kindly reminds you to eat all of those sandwiches, unless you wish to wake up with elephant ears in the morning.' Potter walked out, but stuck his head through the door, adding, 'Seriously, eat up. Those ears are no fun at all – trust me.'

As the door fell shut, Draco could have sworn he heard him mutter "not to mention the trunk".

'Did you – did he just …' stuttered Draco, dumbfounded. 'D'you think he meant –'

But the remainder of his question got drowned out by Hermione, who practically yelled with laughter, the sincerity of it making her look absolutely delectable.

After they'd both devoured the sandwiches to the last crumb, Hermione sent the plate back downstairs. With his stomach filled, the weariness returned, betrayed by a yawn.

'Perhaps you should get some rest,' suggested Hermione. As much as Draco would like to stay awake and ask the many yet unanswered questions, he knew she was right. After being unconscious for two weeks, even a strong Invigoration Draught would not suffice to bring his energy level back to normal right away. Draco fell into the cushions, only a trifle embarrassed about the petulant moan rendered in response to Hermione's getting up from the bed.

'Don't worry. I'll stay right here.' As if reading his mind, she added, 'Do you need something for better dreams?'

'Yeah, that'd be good, thank you.'

She bent down to what Draco assumed was a bag – he couldn't see – and retrieved a familiar looking phial.

'Is that one of the Drinkable Memories I made for your parents?'

Hermione nodded, unstopping the potion in question. 'As soon as they heard what happened, they wanted to help. Well, they couldn't exactly do anything about the situation, but they thought these might come in handy for when you wake up.'

'Which memory is it?' asked Draco, as she handed him the vial.

His beautiful witch flashed him a warm smile. 'Crossing the Great Lake.'

Draco emptied the potion, which left a fresh taste on his tongue and pulled the blanket up. In his horizontal position, he watched as Hermione Levitated an armchair from the other side of the room and next to his bed, making herself comfortable while a book zoomed into her lap.

'What're you readin'?' he asked, his speech already slurred.

'Not important,' said the brunette, raising her wand and dimming the lights. Draco's eyes shut shortly after as he listened to her steady breath and the sound of the pages turning, while Hogwarts castle's many towers and turrets came into sight for the very first time.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Dusk had already fallen when Draco woke to Hermione's light snoring and the pattering of raindrops against glass. Her head abutted against her left shoulder, the book she'd been reading cradled in her lap. Draco still felt worn out, but compared to earlier, he could at least move properly. He scrambled out of bed and carefully draped his blanket over the brunette's asleep figure.

After watching her for a few moments, he searched the room for something to change into – Draco didn't want to venture into Potter-territory wearing his pyjamas. He found what he was looking for and more: his wand lay on top of a neat pile of fresh clothes set aside for him.

Draco's memory of number twelve, Grimmauld Place was vague at best, yet he could tell nevertheless that it'd gone through profound changes. It was no longer the (admittedly intimidating) residence of pure-blood royalty he'd visited in his early childhood, but a welcoming home with – he should have known – innumerable picture frames on the walls, its inhabitants observing his every step. He walked down the hall until hearing muffled voices from downstairs. No, he couldn't just barge in on a pride of lions. Hence he turned around and into another corridor, at the end of which he found a staircase, the sound of the downpour outside growing louder with each tread taken.

The light source Draco sent to float underneath the ceiling revealed that the room he'd entered offered none of the refurbished comfort from downstairs. The stone walls were naked, large trunks and cardboard boxes forming several stacks – it was just a storage room. In one corner, a few stray feathers and mice bones betrayed that an owl lived here during daytime. It was out now, making Draco's breathing the only sound present.

_Good_.

Draco needed to be alone, because he just had to know if his foolish endeavour had changed  _anything_. He took a deep breath, gathered his thoughts, and enunciated, ' _Expecto Patronum_!'

Just like the many times before, the incantation proved fruitless, a serpent of self-expectation throttling every ounce of resolve out of him. Draco gasped for air, in his weakened state failing to compartmentalise and fend off the enemy that was himself; deeply ingrained self-doubt tainted his every brain cell. The thoughts were toxic, he knew, yet unstoppable in their potency.

Not being able to produce a Patronus; not beating Potter to the Snitch; not good enough for his father; not good enough for anyone who was slandering his name.

But they didn't matter. Hermione did.

'Do it again,' Draco whispered to himself, eyes unfocused. The minutes following rendered torturous; he spoke the words over and over again – to no avail. The spell that had put not only himself, but also Hermione through so much pain hadn't done a single thing. Draco allowed himself a grunt and kicked against one of the boxes, trying to scare away the grotesque face of failure which wouldn't leave him alone.

'You should've cast a Silencing Charm first.'

Draco whirled around, knowing before Potter stepped into the light that it was him.

'And you should have knocked,' he retorted dryly, peeved that he didn't think of the basic spell to grant him privacy.

Potter ignored his comment and took a seat on a chest opposite him. 'I came to check on Hermione – and you as well I might add – but found the bed empty and Hermione fast asleep. I'm glad she was; she hasn't been sleeping well ever since that incident, so I let her.'

Draco was still clutching his wand with clammy hands, wondering what Potter's point would be.

'So yeah … I figured I'd find you someplace where you wouldn't be disturbed.'

'And yet, I was,' said Draco surlily.

Again, Potter ignored him. He cocked his chin towards Draco's wand and observed, 'You've been trying to cast a Patronus.'

Draco gritted his teeth. 'That's none of your business.'

'Oh, I beg to differ,' said Potter composedly. 'You're with my friend now, who, as a matter of fact, is still overthinking the spell, which makes her vulnerable in critical situations. And you are both in danger out there; therefore, you need protection. So yes, your success in conjuring a Patronus is indeed business of mine.'

Draco had to accept that Potter had a point, but openly admitting so was out of the question, hence he sneered and broke his gaze.

'C'mon, take a seat.' Potter pointed at one of the trunks.

'I'm not sitting down,  _Potter_ ,' spat Draco in a semblance of long-gone rivalry. He wasn't actually mad at the man, but he needed to vent his frustration, and Potter had practically volunteered.

'What happened to "Mr Potter",  _Mr Boswell_?' The Auror put the fake name into air quotes, though a juvenile tug at his lips belied the admonishment in his voice.

'That, um …' Draco's shoulders lowered, and so did his stubbornness. "Leon" had left the stage a little over two months prior, yet with everything that had happened since, Draco's sense of time was all over the place. He felt a pang of guilt for fooling everyone – including himself. With a defeated shrug, Draco pulled up the trunk and sat down opposite Potter, who didn't even bother to beat around the bush.

'What do you think about when you speak the incantation?'

Draco's brow furrowed, but he answered despite not wanting to.

'Her.'

'I thought as much,' said Potter. 'I know this might be uncomfortable for you but –'

'You think?' Draco interjected sharply, but the other man carried on unfazed.

'… in order to help you, I need details.'

Draco heaved a sigh, deciding that it was easier to tell his feet than Potter himself.

'I have tried every memory with her in it. Sometimes it's not even a specific memory I picture, but just …'

'Just her face,' Potter finished for him.

'Exactly. Or her voice.'

'And nothing has ever come of it? Not even an Incorporeal Patronus?'

Draco shook his head, Potter humming thoughtfully before dropping the one question that made every particle in the air stand still.

'Do you love her?'

Draco swallowed – of course he did. Even though he'd never felt that way about anyone else before, being directly confronted with the question made the answer come naturally, as if it'd just been waiting to be given. The silence grew thicker, so he gave a barely noticeable nod.

'Have you told her?'

Again, Draco's lack of replies must have spoken volumes, because Potter said, 'Perhaps you should.'

'Don't –'  _tell me what to do_ , Draco finished the thought in his head, still staring at his shoes.

'Look, I am here to help. If you are indeed in love with her, in addition to being remorseful about your past actions, what else could be keeping you from getting the spell right?'

Several answers raced through Draco's mind: insecurities; unworthiness; the possibility that she didn't return his feelings. Answers which he certainly wouldn't give the man opposite him.

'Draco,' he said, causing the blond to flinch before looking up and meeting Harry Potter's gaze. 'I might as well start calling you that, because I am positive that Hermione doesn't harbour any intention of leaving you. Even if I hadn't ordered her moving here for her own protection, she wouldn't have hesitated one second to call in sick to stay by your side until you wake up. What I'm trying to say is … figure it out. I have studied that book, of course, and as it appears, that spell has done absolutely nothing. So think. Think hard about what's holding you back. Because it is possible. You might have been branded, but your soul has never been damaged beyond repair.'

He stood, holding out his arm for Draco to take.

'C'mon. Help me move Hermione to your bed without waking her up, and then I'll leave you to your thoughts. You don't have to let me in, but make sure to talk to her tomorrow.'

Draco nodded to himself before accepting the other man's hand as well as the peace offering it entailed.

* * *

**x x x**

* * *

Hermione wasn't surprised to find herself entangled in Draco's arms the next morning, her clothes from the night before transformed into cosy pyjamas (the zipper and belt loops on the bottoms were a dead giveaway). What did surprise her, however, was the fact that Draco didn't object to joining the others for breakfast. The others – in this case Ginny, who didn't have to leave for Quidditch practice until the afternoon, and Hannah, who had convinced her instructors at St Mungo's to count tending to Draco as practical training, which allowed her to stay at Grimmauld Place around the clock.

Really, Hermione didn't know how she would have coped without the support of her friends. Hannah, especially, had thrived in nursing Draco. During breakfast, she enquired about Draco's health, insisting that he rest for at least one more day in addition to staying at Grimmauld Place for as long as the Aurors deemed necessary.

'Unless, of course, you would rather stay at your parents' house,' said Hannah. 'The Manor is safe, too, Neville and Harry told us as much. And your mother said –'

Draco choked on his toast at the mention.

'You're in touch with my mother?' he coughed.

'Of course,' said the blonde matter-of-factly. 'After what happened, I informed her immediately. I thought a mother would want to know when her son is in a coma.'

'Fair enough,' muttered Draco, accepting the glass of water Hermione was handing him. She could pinpoint the exact moment when the dots connected in his head; Draco turned to her and asked, thunderstruck, 'Did you two meet?'

'Yes,' confirmed Hermione, thinking back to the particularly fierce Narcissa Malfoy she'd encountered; a mother beside herself with worry, who would have broken down the house just to see her son.

'And?' was all Draco managed.

'And she would have hired all of St Mungo's staff to come here and nurse you had we not been able to convince her otherwise,' interposed Ginny, sniggering into her cup.

'Oh, she absolutely would've,' agreed Hermione, 'and no, she did not blame me for putting you into this position, nor did she seem disapproving of me as – you know …'

She pressed her lips together sheepishly, fully aware of Ginny and Hannah enjoying themselves far too much at their display of boyfriend and girlfriend.

'Let me get this right,' said Draco, counting on his fingers as he listed, 'You've met my mother. You're in touch with Theo, my owl lives upstairs, and I have to stay here for now – what about my office?'

'Don't worry, I took care of it,' said Hermione proudly. 'Kept it clean and took the liberty of installing some of your equipment. There were rumours though … rumours you've been abducted or … or  _changed sides_.'

Hermione felt her stomach turn at the unthinkable notion. She saw Draco clench his fist, hence reaching for it.

'You know how they are,' she continued while running her thumb across the back of his hand which relaxed upon her touch. 'People talk. They always will. Because of the amount of attention we got over that horrid article, your sudden absence didn't go unnoticed. Some of your mother's guests have told the most bizarre stories about how you left, and Skeeter practically went on the rampage'– Draco's hand beneath hers tensed up again –'I'm seriously beginning to wonder how she gets hired still. If she's playing fair, which I doubt, I bet it's just because all of her stories go viral and bring a lot of revenue. At least Skeeter herself isn't brazen enough to contact me directly. She has her lackeys for that.'

'What did you tell them?' asked Draco, his indignation palpable.

'Only that you have the Mumblemumps,' said Hermione, stifling a smirk. 'That's why you've got quite a few get well cards.'

'Oh, those were lovely,' said Hannah. 'Much better than the Howlers.'

'Howlers?' Draco's brows knitted together as Hermione's heart plummeted; she knew she would have to tell him eventually.

'There were letters – I haven't opened them, of course,' explained Hermione, 'but your Sneakoscope didn't like many of them, that's why I put them away.'

'And the Howlers? It's not like you could have avoided them.'

'There were two,' she said apologetically, as if she herself were responsible. 'Anonymous Howlers at that … some people are real cowards – taking pleasure in insulting others while hiding behind a blank envelope. Makes you wonder if they had the nerve to tell you in person … One accused you of working for the Faceless, Godric knows why – the other must have come from them directly, threatening you. We tried to trace it back to its source, but it was impossible.'

Draco's eyes grew wide, as if suddenly remembering something. 'I completely forgot to tell you! Before I left the Manor, Laurence Parkinson threatened me! You know, Pansy's father – and he wasn't even remotely subtle about it!'

Hermione instantly activated her inner detective. Mirroring his motion, she asked, 'Were there any witnesses?'

Draco shook his head. 'No, unfortunately not. He was careless enough to tell me in the first place; he would have been outright stupid had there been anyone else.'

'So all we've got is your word,' said Hermione. 'But it's something at least.'

'Do you think you can extract the memory?' enquired Ginny, drawing Draco's attention toward herself.

'I'm not sure. Even if, it would only be a reconstructed one, the words might be slightly changed –'

'Which makes it worthless, I'm afraid,' remarked Hannah. 'Memories can always be tampered with, which is why they don't count as evidence. But I'll tell Neville right away.' She got up from the bench, looking exceptionally determined. 'This is still a major lead.'

'Oi, I made egg- and dairy-free Cauldron Cakes, just for you!' complained Ginny as the blonde left one of the half-eaten treats behind to grab a handful of Floo powder from the mantelpiece.

'Say "vegan", it'll save you some syllables,' said Hannah cheekily. She waved her wand, whereupon half a dozen of Cauldron Cakes zoomed her way, along with a tea towel wrapping itself around them before the thusly packed meal vanished inside her bag.

'Neville and I will eat them later, thank you.' She gave the redhead a genuine smile before disappearing in the flames.

'I thought making them was no trouble?' commented Hermione smugly, knowing that Ginny simply used them as an excuse to make her friend feel guilty about leaving.

'You can't let me have my moment, can you?'

'You're right – I can't,' said Hermione, fetching Hannah's plate and trying the baked good. 'Hmm, this is really good!'

'Why does it sound like you're surprised?' sulked Ginny.

'Because you told me you were hopeless at baking when we met for Luna's birthday.'

Ginny shrugged. 'With Kreacher gone, I asked Mum to teach me a bit.' She snorted, rolling her eyes. 'You should have seen her face! I've never seen her that happy – well. Perhaps when she became a grandmother. Which reminds me …' Ginny turned around to Draco and said, 'It's Remembrance Day this Thursday – which, coincidentally, is also Victoire's birthday. Teddy turns four today, and we're going to celebrate all at once at Andromeda's. You're invited, too.'

Hermione looked at Draco, whose features scrunched up in discomfort.

'You only just woke up, so nobody would blame you for not coming,' Ginny carried on. 'But Andromeda asked about you specifically. She wants to see you – and so does Teddy, ever since he learnt he had a … what exactly are you to him? A cousin once removed, right?'

Draco nodded torpidly.

'Listen,' soothed Hermione. 'You really don't have to come. But it'd be a nice change, don't you think? I'm just saying, Andromeda has a large enough garden to play Quidditch … and I don't know about you, but I would give flying a try.'

She saw the corners of his mouth twitch.

'You want to play?' he asked, eyebrows travelling upwards.

'You know what – yes.' Hermione straightened up in her seat. 'We could all use some distraction, even if it'll make me nauseous.'

'Alright, I'll come,' said Draco over Ginny's snorting with laughter. 'Do you think we can fetch my broom beforehand?'

'I'll ask Harry to be sure, but I don't think it'll be an issue,' answered Hermione, feeling genuinely happy.

She and Draco went back upstairs after helping with the dishes – three wands work quicker than one.

'Where did you put all those letters?' he asked.

Hermione cocked her head at the bureau. 'They're in the top drawer, but –'

Draco walked over to the desk and inspected all of the stashed away and unopened envelopes, but didn't touch them. Instead, he turned around and asked, 'Have you got any?'

Hermione bit her lower lip. 'Yes,' she said, thinking about some of the nasty words those strangers felt they were entitled to say.

"Treacherous whore" – "Death Eater slag".

As soon as the confirmation left her lips, she saw anger flickering in Draco's eyes.

'I'm fine,' Hermione said quickly, hoping he wouldn't compromise his improved state of health for sick arseholes who did not deserve the slightest bit of attention. She sliced the distance between them, cradling her palm against his cheek and repeating, 'Really, I'm okay.'

Draco's eyelids shut. While taking deep breaths, he leaned into her touch, Hermione standing up on tiptoes to press a soft kiss onto his lips. He opened his eyes when she drew back, a barely noticeable sheen covering them.

'Can we sit?' he requested quietly.

'Of course.'

They sat on the edge of the bed, and for a short while, nobody said a word. Hermione wanted to give him all the space he needed for whatever he was about to address.

'I talked with … with Harry last night.'

'Oh?' Hermione perked her head up at hearing Draco say Harry's first name.

'And I thought a lot since then. There're a few things that I kept to myself … and last night I realised I shouldn't.'

Hermione's heart pounded heavy at seeing how Draco clearly tried not to cry, the grey of his eyes like pools of mercury. He faced his knees again and continued with a hoarse voice.

'You know, I didn't tell you everything back when you asked me why I chose to live a double life. I'm sorry for not being entirely honest with you, but … I just couldn't admit it. Neither to you, nor to myself. The truth is … apart from the reasons I've already mentioned, that there was a part of me growing up that wanted to be somebody else.'

Draco's hands flew up to support his head while his back bent forward, his already shallow breaths getting more and more erratic as he spoke.

'Someone growing up without those sodding pure-blood ideals,' he spat. 'With a  _normal_ family, in a  _normal_ house, where you don't get lost and which doesn't make you feel lonelier than you already are. With … with a father who actually cares about you, even if you're not faking a bloody injury just to get his attention. A fucking father who doesn't drag his only son into a war.'

A lonely tear fell onto his thigh when he closed his eyes to collect himself. Hermione swallowed, the intensity of his emotions seeping through her skin as though they were her own. She placed a hand on his knee to support them both, and Draco continued, choking on his words.

'I thought … literally being someone else – different looks, different name, different story – would make me feel free. And for a while, it did. I could talk to people who would otherwise have regarded me with contempt. I could speak my mind and was taken seriously. It wasn't until we met again that … that I realised I had created a prison for myself. I wasn't truly free. I was just running away. And you forced me to stop. You made me realise that it was okay to just be me.'

As soon as he pressed out the last syllable, Draco broke down entirely. Hermione wrapped her arms around him, holding him tight and whispering comforting words into his ear. Draco's soul was bare before her; every tear spilt piercing her heart. After several minutes passed in silence, he simmered down again, but Hermione didn't let go.

'Merlin, I feel so much lighter already,' Draco commented, to which Hermione gave a nasal chuckle.

'I'm so glad you told me,' she said, the twang in her voice betraying her own emotional reaction. Hermione pulled back a little so that she could look into those gorgeous eyes – their puffiness didn't change how she felt about them, on the contrary. He was truly comfortable with her, and that made all the worry which had plagued her for the past weeks disappear.

'Of course it's okay to be you.' She gave a gentle smile. 'I wouldn't want you to be anyone else – I want  _you_. Your father … and all those people who defame you – they have no idea who you really are.'

Draco closed his eyes while a broad smile lit up his features.

'You're amazing; you know that?' he said before pulling her face towards his and kissing her feverishly.

' _You_  are,' said Hermione in between kisses, giggling at how the moment they were having was reminiscent of some terribly kitschy soap opera. 'Sorry, I'm being silly.'

'No. You're you, and that's all I need right now.' Draco pressed his lips against her brow before standing up. 'I can't believe how  _good_ this feels,' he said emphatically, strolling the length of the room and back. 'I have never told  _anyone_! Not even Theo.'

Hermione watched as he brandished his wand, regarding it with amazement as if having an epiphany.

'I could move mountains right now,' he muttered softly.

And then, meeting her gaze, he spoke the words which had challenged him beyond imagination. Their immediate effect was palpable – Hermione knew before she saw it.

' _Expecto Patronum!'_

A silvery haze poured from the tip of the wand, lighting up the room. It assumed no shape, but he'd done it regardless – the cry of sheer and unbridled joy coming from his lungs prompting Hermione to join in. She jumped up from the bed and into his arms, almost knocking both of them down in the process.

Draco lifted her up into the air while their lips came crashing down upon one another's.

_This,_ she thought.  _This is what I live for_.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, let me apologise for the long wait. This chapter has been sitting around for a couple of weeks now, and I considered delaying the upload until the following chapter would be almost done. But I've been getting these amazing reviews recently, be it from new or old readers, and I couldn't resist. It'd probably be wiser to stall, so that you don't have to wait for months on end again, but sod it. Hopefully it won't be three months next time; I have the final chapters mapped out, the end is nigh, and my mojo appears to be back. Cross your fingers for me, yeah?
> 
> I am eternally grateful to my friend and beta MalfoysMuggleMrs and everyone who keeps encouraging me.
> 
> "Never be cruel, never be cowardly, and never, ever eat pears! Remember, hate is always foolish, and love is always wise. Laugh hard, run fast, be kind." – the Twelfth Doctor
> 
> Be a better version of yourself every day. But make sure to eat your fruits! ;-)
> 
> Humbly yours, Phinoa


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